CHAPTER II.

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THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE

Of Literature, Art, and Science.

Vol. V. NEW-YORK, APRIL 1, 1852. No. IV.

WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS, LL.D.

[Illustration]

A steadily growing reputation for almost twenty years, justified by the

gradually increasing evidence of those latent, exhaustless,

ever-unfolding energies which belong to genius, has inwoven the name of

Simms with the literature of America, and made it part of the heirloom

which our age will give to posterity. Asking and desiring nothing to

which he could not prove himself justly entitled, he has wrested a

reputation from difficulty and obstacle, and conquered an honorable

acknowledgment from opposition and indifference. Even if we had not

proofs of genius in the treasury of thought and imagination constituted

by his writings, still the nobility of the example of energy,

perseverance, and high-toned hopefulness, which he has given, would

deserve a grateful homage.

William Gilmore Simms is the second, and only surviving, of three

brothers, sons of William Gilmore Simms, and Harriet Ann Augusta

Singleton. His father was of a Scotch-Irish family, and his mother of a

Virginia stock, her grandparents having removed to South Carolina long

before the Revolution, in which they took an active part on the Whig

side. He was born on the 17th of April, 1806. His mother died when he

was an infant. His father, failing in business as a merchant, removed

first to Tennessee, and then to Mississippi. While in Tennessee he

volunteered and held a commission in the army of Jackson (in Coffee's

brigade of mounted men), which scourged the Creeks and Seminoles after

the massacre of Fort Mims. Our author, left to the care of a

grandmother, remained in Charleston, where he received an education

which circumstances rendered exceedingly limited. He was denied a

classical training, but such characters stand little in need of the

ordinary aids of the schoolmaster, and, with indomitable application, he

has not only stored his mind with the richest literature, but has

received an unsolicited tribute to his diligence and acquisitions, in

the degree of Doctor of Laws, conferred upon him by the respectable

University of Alabama.

At first it was designed that he should study medicine, but his

inclination led him to the law. He was admitted to the bar of South

Carolina when twenty-one, practised for a brief period, and became part

proprietor of a daily newspaper, which, taking ground against

nullification, ruined him--swallowing up a small maternal property, and

involving him in a heavy debt which hung upon and embarrassed him for a

long time after. In 1832, he first visited the North, where he published

Atalantis. Martin Faber followed in 1834, and periodically the long

catalogue of his subsequent performances.

There are few writers who have exhibited such versatility of powers,

combined with vigor, originality of copious and independent ideas, and

that faculty of condensation which frequently by a single pregnant line

suggests an expansive train of reflection. As a poet, he unites high

imaginative powers with metaphysical thought--by which we mean that

large discourse of reason which generalizes, and which seizes the

universal, and perceives its relations to individual phenomena of nature

and psychology. His poems abound in appropriate, felicitous, and

original similes. His keen and fresh perception of nature, furnishes him

with beautiful pictures, the truthfulness and clearness of which are

admirably presented in the lucid language with which they are painted,

and, in his expression of deep personal feelings, we find a noble union

of sad emotion and manliness of tone. He draws from a full treasury of

varied experience, active thought, close observation, just and original

reflection, and a spirit which has drank deeply and lovingly from the

gushing founts of nature. His inspiration is often kindled by the sunny

and luxuriant scenery of the beautiful region to which he was born, and

besides the freshness and glow which this imparts to his descriptive

poetry, it makes him emphatically the poet of the South. Not only has he

sung her peculiar natural aspects with the appreciation of a poet and

the feeling of a son, but he has a claim to her gratitude for having

enshrined in melodious verse her ancient and fading traditions.

Mr. Simms commenced writing verses at a very early period. At eight

years of age he rhymed the achievements of the American navy in the last

war with Great Britain. At fifteen, he was a scribbler of fugitive verse

for the newspapers, and before he was twenty-one he had published two

collections of miscellaneous poetry, which his better taste and prudence

subsequently induced him to suppress. Two other volumes of poems

followed, in a more ambitious vein, which are also now beyond the reach

of the collector, and were issued while he was engaged in the

occupations of a newspaper editor and a student and practitioner of law.

These volumes were followed by Atalantis, a poem which has been highly

praised by the best critics of our time.

As a prose writer, his vigorous, copious, and original ideas are clothed

in a manly, flexible, pure, and lucid style. His first production,

Martin Faber, succeeded Atalantis. It was the initial of a series of

tales, which we may describe as of the metaphysical and passionate or

moral imaginative class. These, with two or more volumes of shorter

tales, are numerous, and perhaps among the most original of his

writings. They comprise Martin Faber and other Tales, Castle Dismal,

Confessions, or the Blind Heart, Carle Werner and other Tales, and the

Wigwam and Cabin. There are other compositions belonging to this

category, and, it may be, not inferior in merit to any of these, which

have appeared in periodicals and annuals, but have not yet been

collected by their author.

The first novel of Mr. Simms belonged to our border and domestic

history. This was Guy Rivers; and to the same class he has contributed

largely, in Richard Hurdis, Border Beagles, Beauchampe, Helen Halsey,

and other productions. In historical romance, he has written The

Yemassee, the Damsel of Darien, Pelayo, and Count Julian, each in two

volumes. The scenes of the two last are laid in Europe. His romances

founded on our revolutionary history, are The Partisan, Mellichampe, and

The Kinsmen. In biography and history, he is the author of The Life of

Marion; The Life of Captain John Smith, founder of Virginia; a History

of South Carolina; a Geography of the same State; a Life of Bayard; and

a Life of General Greene.

It is impossible to enumerate accurately his poetical productions, as

many, published in periodicals, have never been printed together; but

the collection of his poems now in course of publication at Charleston,

will supply a desideratum to the lovers of genuine American letters and

art. Atalantis, Southern Passages and Pictures, Donna Florida, Grouped

Thoughts and Scattered Fancies, Areytos, Lays of the Palmetto, The

Cassique of Accube and other Poems, Norman Maurice, and The City of the

Silent, constituting distinct volumes, are, however, well known.

The orations of Mr. Simms, which have been published, comprise one

delivered before the Erosophic Society of the Alabama University,

entitled, The Social Principle--the true source of National Permanence;

another before the town council and citizens of Aiken, South Carolina,

on the Fourth of July, 1844, entitled, The Sources of American

Independence; and one delivered before literary societies in Georgia,

entitled Self-development.

As a writer of criticism, Mr. Simms is known by numerous articles

contributed to periodicals; by a review of Mrs. Trolloppe, in the

American Quarterly, and of Miss Martineau in the Southern Literary

Messenger (both subsequently republished in pamphlets, and received with

general approval), as well as by many others of equal merit--a selection

from which, wholly devoted to American topics, has been published in two

volumes, under the title of Views and Reviews in American History and

Fiction.

Scarcely a production of Mr. Simms has been unmarked by a cordial

reception from the best literary journals; and the praise of the London

_Metropolitan_ and _Examiner_--the former when under the conduct of

Thomas Campbell, the latter of Albany Fonblanque--was generously

bestowed, especially on _Atalantis_; of which the _Metropolitan_ said,

"What has the most disappointed us is, that it is so thoroughly English:

the construction, the imagery, and, with a very few exceptions, the

idioms of the language, are altogether founded on our own scholastic and

classical models;" and Fonblanque, in reviewing a tale by Simms,

entitled, _Murder will Out_, said, "But all we intended to say about the

originality displayed in the volume has been forgotten in the interest

of the last story of the book, _Murder will Out_. This is an American

ghost story, and, without exception, the best we ever read. Within our

limits, we could not, with any justice, describe the whole course of its

incident, and it is in that, perhaps, its most marvellous effect lies.

It is the _rationale_ of the whole matter of such appearances, given

with fine philosophy and masterly interest. We never read any thing more

perfect or more consummately told."

But the testimony of the critical press, or even of the successful sale

of an author's works, is not so suggestive of merit as the fact that his

productions have entered into the popular mind; and this tribute Mr.

Simms has received in the fact that in regions which he has identified

with legends created for them by his own genius, localities of his

different incidents are pointed out with a sincere belief in their

historical verity. The dramatic powers manifested in his novels, have

been still more largely displayed in his _Norman Maurice_, a play of

singular originality, in design, character, and execution, the nervous

language and felicitous turns of expression in which remind us of the

best of the old dramatists. We have heretofore expressed in the

_International_ a conviction that Norman Maurice is the best American

drama that has yet been published--the most American, the most dramatic,

the most original.

As a member of the Legislature of his native State, and on various

public occasions, Mr. Simms has vindicated a title to fame as an orator;

and a recent nomination for the presidency of the South Carolina

College, although he declined being a candidate, is an evidence of the

impression which his ability, information, and high character have

produced on his fellow citizens.

His intense intellectual activity, united with a habitually reflective

and philosophical mode of thought, and unwearied laboriousness, enable

him to accomplish an almost incredible amount of literary labor. The

catalogue of his works which is subjoined, gives but an inadequate idea

of what he has really performed; for multifarious productions, many of

them of the highest order in their respective classes, are scattered in

the pages of periodicals, or still in manuscript; while the unceasing

demands on his pen, with his arduous editorship, prevent him from

accomplishing many fruitful designs, whose inception he has hinted in

various ways. To his intellectual gifts, he unites a brave, generous

nature, a kindly, and strong heart, a genial, impulsive, yet faithful

and determined disposition, warm affection and friendship, a spirit to

do and to endure, and a soul as much elevated above the petty envies and

jealousies which too often deform the _genus irritabile_, as it is in

large sympathy with the beautiful, the true, the just--with humanity and

with nature. P.

* * * * *

_CHRONOLOGICAL LIST OF WORKS BY MR. SIMMS._

1. Lyrical and other Poems: 18mo, pp. 208, Charleston, Ellis

& Noufvillle, 1827.

2. Early Lays: 12mo. pp. 108, Charleston, A. E. Miller,

1827.

3. The Vision of Cortes, and other Poems: Charleston, J. S.

Burgess.

4. The Tri-Color, or Three Days of Blood in Paris, 1830:

Charleston.

5. Atalantis, a Story of the Sea: New-York, J. & J. Harper,

1832.

6. Martin Faber, a Tale: New-York, J. & J. Harper, 1833.

7. The Book of My Lady, a Melange: Phila., Key & Biddle,

1833.

8. Guy Rivers, a Tale of Georgia: 2 vols. 12mo., New-York,

Harper & Brothers, 1834.

9. The Yemassee, a Romance of Carolina: 2 vols., New-York,

Harper & Brothers, 1835.

10. The Partisan, a Tale of the Revolution: 2 vols.,

New-York, Harper & Brothers, 1836.

11. Mellichampe, a Legend of the Santee: 2 vols., New-York,

Harper & Brothers, 1836.

12. Martin Faber, and other Tales: a new edition, 2 vols.,

New-York, Harper & Brothers, 1836.

13. Pelayo, a Story of the Goth: 2 vols., New-York, Harper &

Brothers, 1838.

14. Carl Werner, an Imaginative Story, with other Tales of

the Imagination: 2 vols., New-York, George Adlard, 1838.

15. Richard Hurdis, or the Avenger of Blood, a Tale of

Alabama: 2 vols., Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1838.

16. Southern Passages and Pictures: 1 vol., New-York, G.

Adlard, 1839.

17. The Damsel of Darien: 2 vols., Philadelphia, Lea &

Blanchard.

18. Border Beagles, a Tale of Mississippi: 2 vols.,

Philadelphia, Carey & Hart, 1840.

19. The Kinsman, or the Black Riders of the Congaree: 2

vols., Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard, 1841.

20. Confession, or the Blind Heart: 2 vols., Philadelphia,

Lea & Blanchard.

21. Beauchampe, or the Kentucky Tragedy, a Tale of Passion:

2 vols., Philadelphia, Lea & Blanchard, 1842.

22. History of South Carolina: 1 vol. 12mo., Charleston,

Babcock & Co.

23. Geography of South Carolina: 1 vol. 12mo., Charleston,

Babcock.

24. Life of Francis Marion: 1 vol., New-York, J. & H. G.

Langley.

25. Life of Capt. John Smith, the Founder of Virginia: 1

vol., New-York, Langley.

26. Count Julian: 2 vols. 8vo., New-York, Taylor & Co.,

1845.

27. The Wigwam and the Cabin: 2 vols., New-York, Wiley &

Putnam.

28. Views and Reviews in American History, Literature and

Art: 2 vols., New-York, Wiley & Putnam, 1846.

29. Life of Chev. Bayard: 1 vol., New-York, Harper &

Brothers, 1848.

30. Donna Florida: 1 vol. 18mo., Charleston, Burgess &

James, 1848.

31. Grouped Thoughts and Scattered Fancies, a Collection of

Sonnets: 1 vol. 18mo., Richmond, McFarlane.

32. Slavery in the South: 1 vol 8vo., Richmond, McFarlane,

1831.

33. Araytos, or the Songs of the South: 1 vol, 12mo.,

Charleston, John Russell, 1846.

34. Lays of the Palmetto, a Tribute to the South Carolina

Regiment in the War with Mexico: 12mo., Charleston, John

Russell, 1848.

35. Atalantis, a Story of the Sea, with the Eye and Wing

(Poems chiefly Imaginative): 1 vol. 12mo., Carey & Hart,

1848.

36. Life of Nathaniel Greene: 12 mo., New-York, Coolidge &

Bro., 1849.

37. Supplement to Writings of Shakspeare, Edited with Notes:

(First collected edition) 1 vol. 8vo., New-York, Coolidge &

Brothers.

38. The Social Principle, the true Secret of National

Permanence, an Oration: 1842.

39. The Sources of American Independence, an Oration: 1844.

40. Self Development, an Oration: 1847.

41. Castle Dismal, a Novelette: 1 vol. 12mo., Burgess &

Stringer.

42. Helen Halsey, 1 vol, 12mo., New-York, Burgess &

Stringer.

43. Katherine Walton, or the Rebel of Dorchester, a Romance

of the Revolution: A. Hart, Philadelphia, 1851.

44. The Golden Christmas; a Chronicle of St. John's,

Berkeley: Charleston, Walker & Richards, 1852.

THE PALACES OF TRADE.

[Illustration: PETERSON & HUMPHREY'S CARPET HOUSE.]

It were well if not only William B. Astor, Stephen Whitney, the heirs of

Peter Stuyvesant (of blessed memory), and others who own real estate in

this city, and likewise all mayors, common councilmen, and others in

authority, were endued with more taste, with a higher regard to the

general interest, and a juster sense of the matters that pertain to a

good administration, so that it might be said in after times that the

beneficence of the Creator (who in things natural has done more for ours

than for any other city), had been seconded by the pious wisdom of the

creature, and Manhattan pointed to as in all respects the metropolis of

the world. Why not? If the very stones in the streets of London, Paris,

and Vienna, were turned to pure gold, they would not purchase for those

cities advantages that should be compared with such as we already

possessed by our beautiful island--a giant mosaic, set in emerald,

studding the bosom of Nature.

Whatever may be said by our excellent neighbor, the minister of the

dingy-looking red brick meeting-house round the corner, it is not less a

work of piety to create any work of beauty--a beautiful house, or shop,

or poem, for example--than to teach a class in the Sunday school,--which

doctrine may be incidentally fortified from Jonathan Edwards's Theory of

True Virtue, and more directly from the best philosophies of later

years. It is ordered that the dignity of human nature shall in a great

degree be dependent upon a sympathetic association with what is

admirable. It was Hazlitt, we believe,--certainly it was some one who

appreciatingly recognized the highest earthly ministry,--who said it was

impossible to entertain an angry feeling in the presence of a lovely

woman's portrait,--which, done fitly, is the highest accomplishment of

art. Whatever is beautiful or sublime has the same purifying and

ennobling tendency. The beggars do shrewdly who sit in _front_ of

Stewart's. The same person who would give a shilling there, would as

likely as not steal a penny from the hat of the blind man round the

corner, where those detestable red bricks so outrage every principle

known to a builder fit to handle the trowel. There is nothing more

offensive than this custom of making of different materials the various

fronts of the same edifice. It may be allowable to construct the _rear_

of a house, or a side that is to be built against speedily, of a cheaper

stone; but to make the face upon one street of marble, and the face

around the corner of brick, as in the case of Stewart's store, and the

Society Library, is an outrage as ridiculous as it would be to make

alternate gores of a woman's skirt of Petersham and Brussels lace.

Bricks are very respectable; we say nothing in their dispraise; but to

any man of taste, an edifice is much more beautiful built entirely of

bricks than it is with but one of two exposed parts of marble; and let

us say to the affluent merchant to whom New-York is indebted for the

structure just mentioned, that until he paints his bricks on

Reade-street, so that they correspond as nearly as may be with his

fronts on Chambers-street and Broadway, his store will indicate but a

shabby gentility, an unnatural association of tow cloth and satin,

copper and silver, poverty and riches, which should blush in the face of

the most inferior exhibition of consistency. With the abolition of this

strong contrast, the observer who goes down Broadway will contemplate

with delight the classical air of this most imposing Palace of Trade

that has yet been erected in the cities of the United States. How easily

Broadway, for the money that its piles of brick and stone will have cost

in ten years, might be made the most splendid street in Christendom, by

a mere observance of the principles of taste and unity!

[Illustration: PRINCIPAL HALL OF PETERSON & HUMPHREY'S CARPET HOUSE.]

In a little hamlet of five or fifteen hundred inhabitants, great

buildings are out of place. In a city like ours, every thing should be

in keeping, and the predominant principle should be the _gigantesque_.

If the lot-holders from Bowling Green to the New Park would but consider

the matter, with intelligent reference not only to the glory of the city

but to their own profit; if each separate square were built as if it

were _one_ edifice (as, without any blending of property, it might be

very easily), though these squares were all of plain brick, and no more

costly than the well-known row of stores in William-street, what an

imposing spectacle they would present! But if one block were like the

Astor House, the next like Stewart's (except only the Reade street

front), the next a row of free-stone, the next one of brick, the next

one of granite,--here a Gothic, there a Byzantine, then a Corinthian,

then, if you please, as plain a front as that of the New-York

Hotel--with here and there a church, library, lyceum, or art gallery, of

a style less suitable for shops or dwellings,--and there would be

nothing in the world to compare with Broadway. But this running of

democracy into the ground, this whim of every vulgar fellow who owns a

front of twenty feet, that he must illustrate his independence by

building on it in his own peculiar way, is baulking Providence, and for

the full cost of magnificence confining us to tricksy meanness. Two or

three years ago rose the chaste and simple front of 349 Broadway, in a

row of decayed brick shops, which, it was hoped would give place to an

entire range in imitation of the initial structure. But since then, the

owner of a couple of adjoining lots--a Connecticut man probably--has

caused to be put up two stores of a different style, not of half the

value of continuations of the less expensive edifice which they join. If

instead of this patchwork, now planted here for half a century, there

had been an extension of uniform stores from corner to corner--though

either Beck's or the building we have mentioned had been the model--the

single splendid edifice would have been a pride and boast of the city,

and the separate stores would have been of much greater value than the

best can be now. It is as revolting (and much more vexatious, for its

publicity) as the worst case of Saxon and Congo amalgamation. A

magnificent pile has been erected in Wall-street on the corner west of

the Exchange; but some person, ignorant, it is to be hoped for his

soul's sake, of the true obligations of morality applicable in the case,

has built, at the same time, at the same cost, of the same height, and

without any conceivable justifying reason, an utterly incongruous basket

of offices, as if for the special purpose of vexing the eyes of men who

have instincts of decency.

[Illustration: THOMPSON'S SALOON.]

The imposing edifice on the corner of Broadway and White-street, of

which a view is presented on a preceding page, is one of the

improvements of the city made during the last year. In the great

carpet-house of Peterson & Humphrey are offered the productions of the

best looms in the world, in a variety and profusion probably unequalled

elsewhere in America. The principal saloon is like a street, and it is

almost always thronged with people.

Not far from the store of Peterson & Humphrey--at 359 Broadway--is the

new and beautiful building erected by the well-known confectioners,

Thompson & Son. This was opened to the public but a few weeks ago, and

it is the most splendid establishment of the kind in America. The

several sales during the last three quarters of a century of the ground

upon which it is built, illustrate the rapid increase of value in real

estate in this city during that period. The lot formed a part of the De

Peyster farm, and was called pasture ground. On the death of Major De

Peyster, the farm was divided, and this lot, then thirty-two feet wide,

was on the 13th of December, 1784, sold for L100 New-York currency; in

1789 it was sold for L150; in 1805 for $1500; in 1820 for $4000; in 1825

for $11,000; and in 1850 it was bought by Mr. Thompson for $60,000, and

he has expended $50,000 in the erection of the building with which it is

now occupied, and which is twenty-eight feet wide, one hundred and

ninety feet deep, and sixty-two feet high. It is built in a very rich

style, of Paterson stone, similar to that used in Trinity church. The

architects were Field and Correja, and the decorations in fresco are by

Rossini. Mr. Thompson, senior, has been a quarter of a century in the

business for which he has erected this new edifice, and in which he has

accumulated his fortune. In 1820 there were but one or two houses of

the kind in New-York, and these were of limited capacity and in every

way inferior to Taylor's, Weller's, or Thompson's, of the present day.

These are among the most luxurious and comfortable resorts for ladies

and gentlemen who visit the city but for a part of a day, or who have

not time or inclination to go to houses in distant parts of the town, to

lunch or dine, or for those who come down Broadway to do shopping, and

need a resting place, or enjoy an exchange for gossip.

[Illustration: PRINCIPAL SALOON AT THOMPSON'S.]

The next of the Palaces of Trade recently erected in the city, for which

we have now room for any description, is the great silk house of the

well-known merchants, Bowen & McNamee, constituting one of the most

attractive features of the lower part of Broadway. It is built of white

marble, and the style of architecture is Elizabethan, and peculiarly

elaborate and effective. The building is thirty-seven and a half feet

wide, one hundred and forty-seven deep, and four stories high; and each

story consists of a single unbroken hall, lined with the richest

English, German, French, Italian and Indian goods. The architect was Mr.

Joseph C. Wells, and his plans were used in all the minutest details of

ornament and furniture. It is regarded, we believe, as the greatest

triumph of its kind of which our commercial metropolis has to boast;

indeed in magnificence of design, beauty of execution, and perfect

adaptation to its purposes, there is nothing superior to it, probably,

among the buildings devoted to trade in all the world.

It was said by Jefferson that the genius of Architecture would never

make her abode in America; but the new edifices in New-York, of which we

have described some prominent specimens, may lead others to a different

conclusion. And we are of opinion that the progress of this country, in

the last quarter of a century, has been less conspicuous in any thing

else than in this noble art, little as it is now understood, much as it

is still disregarded. In some recent speculations on the subject, the

_Tribune_ observes:

"There is no American architecture, unless the Lowell factories may be

regarded as such. Our churches are small and imperfect imitations of a

miscellaneous Gothic, and our exchanges, colleges, lyceums, banks and

custom-houses affect the Greek, with as much propriety as our merchants,

professors and clerks would indue themselves with the Athenian costume.

There is no hope of the churches and banks. They are nothing if not

Gothic and Grecian. We shall not discuss the probable character of our

architecture. It is clear that New-York will build brick houses, and in

blocks. But beauty costs no more than ugliness, and although every man

has the right to build a house of that appearance which best pleases

himself, yet every citizen is bound to have at heart the beauty of the

city. He cannot escape it. His pride compels it; and therefore every man

who builds a house ought to consult, to some extent, the general effect

of his building, and as he would not paint it blue or black, he should

no less consider its form than its color.

"Cheapness and convenience will, of course, be the first principles in

our building, beauty and picturesqueness will be secondary. The point is

to combine these without much compromising either. At present our cities

are the unhandsomest in the world. The street architecture is monotonous

and heavy. The houses, compared with those of other capitals, are low,

but they are not light. Paris and the Italian cities have always a

festal air. Vienna is brilliant. Even grim old Rome seems waiting to be

gay. You do not immediately see the reason of this. The houses are high,

the streets narrow, shutting out the sky, and the swarms of passengers

do not explain the charm. But if you look narrowly you will see that the

difference of effect produced, arises, not so much from any essential

architectural superiority; because the mass of building in any city is

of about the same general character--but that it is due to the "broken

and various lines which every where meet the eye, relieving the heavy

gravity of the smooth fronts which with us are entirely unrelieved.

Sometimes, indeed, a street is built with regard to its architectural

beauty, as the _Rue de Rivoli_, in Paris, of which the harmony is

uniformity and not monotony. One side of this street is the garden of

the Tuileries, and the other is like a prolonged palace front. The

northern side of the _Boulevards des Italiens_ is truly picturesque, but

for directly the contrary reason--the infinite variety of line

presented.

[Illustration: BOWEN & M'cNAMME'S SILK HOUSE.]

"It is to these lines of gallery and balcony which break and lighten the

mass of building, that we must look for a hint of very feasible

improvement. If any city reader wishes an illustration of this fact, let

him observe how the iron verandah upon the Collamore House redeems the

otherwise bald, dead weight of that building. Then let him cast his eye

up Broadway to the long front of Niblo's Hotel--unrelieved and

blank--and consider the cheerful effect of a continuous gallery along

each story, or separate balconies at every window, as on the beautiful

_Chiaja_ at Naples. On the other hand let him ask his Metropolitan pride

how it would like a street of such edifices as the City Assembly Rooms

on the site of Tattersalls? So, also, in dwelling-houses, the balcony

which is now confined to the parlor floor might occasionally be carried

up through the other stories, and this, in narrow streets, with a

peculiarly happy effect, as is seen in such streets of foreign cities,

where the style, if elaborated in lattices and bay-windows, becomes

romantic and poetic.

"Greater variety in the mouldings of doors and windows, and in the

designs of porticoes, might easily be obtained, with an infinite gain of

grace to the city. The Broadway Theatre illustrates this, for it is

certainly one of the most impressive buildings upon that street. The

question, it must be remembered, is not one of art, so much as of

picturesqueness and effect. The galleries and balconies, &c., are only a

subterfuge. If an edifice is intrinsically beautiful and

well-proportioned, it claims no such accessories, as Stewart's building,

which, although a simple square mass, yet from the admirable proportion,

rather than the material, is as stately and imposing as many a foreign

palace. But where there is no regard--as is the usual case--to the

dignity or propriety of form, there we must take advantage of an

alleviation, and obtain lightness, gayety, and variety as we best can.

"There is, however, one point peculiar to American, or more properly to

New-York building, which calls for the determined and constant censure

of every man who values human life. We mean the flimsy style of building

arising from the frenzied haste with which we do every thing. This has

long been our reproach. Scarcely a year passes that we do not record

some disaster of this kind, often involving a melancholy waste of life.

'_Is it strong?_' is a question constantly asked of a new building, and

a question which, in any civilized community, it should be as

unnecessary to ask, as whether the public wells are poisoned.

"We know many who will not pass under buildings now going up or recently

erected. A friend walked down Broadway one morning, while a building

was in course of erection on the site of the present Waverly House, and

returning in the afternoon found that it had all tumbled down. Our

readers have not forgotten the frightful fall of a block in Twenty-first

street last spring. One is curious to know if nothing is ever to be

done--if the city means to take no security for the lives of the

citizens in this matter. It would be very easy to prevent this flimsy

building, and even were it very difficult it should be effectually done.

This, too, is a matter in which every citizen is interested.

"Stores and Warehouses have their own proprieties. Warehouses properly

avoid even the _appearance_ of lightness. They are devoted to heavy

storage. No life, save of bales and boxes,--and not of the contents of

bales and boxes--is associated with them. Security is the first and only

thing we demand of them, provided the structures are not painfully

disproportioned. So with Prisons. In fact, in architecture, the ornament

must depend upon the use, must be developed from the use. For the same

reason that balconies become a dwelling-house they disfigure a

warehouse. Stores again should partake, in their appearance, of the

intrinsic character and associations of shops. When shop-keeping becomes

royal, it should be royally housed, as in Stewart's building.

"The theme unravels itself endlessly. It is one of those common

interests of constantly recurring importance which it is always worth

while to talk about. Because there is no American architecture, there is

no occasion for making our buildings mere piles of brick and mortar,

punctured here and there for light--and because we are a commonsense,

go-ahead people, there is no need that our houses should offend the eye;

but--for that reason--great need that they should please it.

"Lorenzo of Florence was the magnificent, not because he was rich, but

because he knew the use of riches."

Despite all drawbacks, our city is growing wonderfully in splendor as

well as in size; and perhaps no previous season has promised so many

improvements in Broadway, uptown, or by the different parks, as the

present. Surpassing already any metropolis in the world in the number

and magnificence of our hotels, we are to have in occupancy within a few

weeks the splendid St. Nicholas and the gigantic Metropolitan, besides

half a dozen of inferior pretensions, which will yet surpass the best in

other cities; and new churches, and galleries, and public halls, are

talked of, in number and capacity, as in beauty, sufficient for all the

possible contingencies of a great capital, increasing in wealth, and

power, and beauty, with such unexampled rapidity. The power and

magnificence of New-York have been built up by her merchants, whose

private enterprise, public spirit, and intelligence and taste, are

especially conspicuous in the new edifices devoted to trade, of which we

have given descriptions.

[Illustration: INTERIOR OF BOWEN & M'cNAMEE'S SILK HOUSE.]

HERMAN HOOKER, D.D.

[Illustration]

Herman Hooker is one of the most able and peculiar writers in religion

and religious philosophy now living in America. Indeed, we are inclined

to doubt whether the Episcopal Church in the United States embraces

another author whose name will be as long or as respectfully remembered

in the Christian world. If he is not mentioned in "every day's report,"

it is because he adds to genius an unobtrusive modesty, as rare as are

the admirable qualities with which in his case it is associated.

Dr. Hooker is a native of Poultney, Rutland county, Vermont. He was

graduated at Middlebury College in 1825, and soon after entered upon the

study of divinity at the Presbyterian Theological Seminary in Princeton.

He subsequently took orders in the Episcopal Church, and acquired

considerable reputation as a preacher; but at the end of a few years ill

health compelled him to abandon the pulpit, and he has since resided in

Philadelphia. The distinction of Doctor in Divinity was conferred upon

him three or four years ago by Union College.

Dr. Hooker published in 1835 _The Portion of the Soul, or Thoughts on

its Attributes and Tendencies as Indications of its Destiny_; in the

same year _Popular Infidelity_, which in later editions is entitled,

_The Philosophy of Unbelief, in Morals and Religion, as discernible in

the Faith and Character of Men_; in 1846, _The Uses of Adversity and the

Provisions of Consolation_; in 1848, _The Christian Life a Fight of

Faith_; and soon after, _Thoughts and Maxims_, a book worthy of

Rochefoucauld for point, of Herbert for piety, and Bacon for wisdom.

Upon meeting with qualities like Dr. Hooker's in one not known among the

popular authors of the country, we are prompted to say with Wordsworth,

"Strongest minds are often those of whom the world hears least," or in

the bolder words of Henry Taylor, "The world knows nothing of its

greatest men." It is surprising that a voice like his should have

awakened no echoes. He deserves a place among the first religious

writers of the age: for he has been faithful to the great mission laid

upon the priesthood, which is, not to labor upon "forms, modes, shows,"

of devotion, nor to dispute of systems, schools, and theories of faith,

but to be witnesses of a law above the world, and prophets of a

consolation that is not of mortality. When we take up one of his books,

we could imagine that we had fallen upon one of those great masters in

divinity, who in the seventeenth century illustrated the field of moral

relations and affections with a power and splendor peculiar to that age.

These great writers possessed an apprehension of spiritual subjects,

sensitive, yet profoundly rational; a vision on which the rays of a

higher consciousness streamed in lustre so transcending that the light

of earth seemed like a shadow thrown across its course; which differed

from inspiration in degree rather than in kind. The resemblance of Dr.

Hooker to these great authors is obviously not an affectation. It is not

confined to style, but reaches to the constitution and tone of the mind.

His productions indicate the same temper of deep thoughtfulness upon

man's estate and destiny; the same union of a personal sympathy with a

judicial superiority, which suffers in all the human weaknesses which it

detects and condemns; the same earnest sense of their subjects as

realities, clear, present and palpable; the same quick feeling, toned

into dignity by pervading, essential wisdom; and that direct cognizance

of the substances of religion, which does not deduce its great moral

truths as consequences of an assumed theory, but seizes them as primary

elements that verify themselves and draw the theories after them by a

natural connection. Fretted and wearied with metaphysical theologies;

vexed by the self-illustration, the want of candor, the fierceness, the

ungenial and unsatisfying hollowness of popular religionism, we turn

with a grateful relief to this soothing and impressive system which

speculates not, wrangles not, reviles not, but, while it every where

testifies of the degradation we are under, touches our spirits to power

and purity by the constant exhortation of "sursem corda!"

The style of Dr. Hooker abounds in spontaneous interest and unexpected

graces. It seems to result immediately from his character, and to be an

inseparable part of it. It is free from all the commonplaces of fine

writing; has nothing of the formal contrivance of the rhetorician, the

balanced period, the pointed turn, the recurring cadence. Yet the charms

of a genuine simplicity, of a directness almost quaint, of primitive

gravity, and calm, native good sense, renders it singularly agreeable to

a cultivated taste. Undoubtedly there is in spiritual sensibility

something akin to genius, and like it tending to utterance in language

significant and beautiful. We meet at times in Dr. Hooker's writings

with phrases of the rarest felicity and of great delicacy and

expressiveness; in which we know not whether most to admire the vigor

which has conceived so striking a thought, or the refinement of art

which has fixed it in words so beautifully exact.

SUNSET.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE.

BY R. S. CHILTON

See with what pomp the golden sun goes down

Behind yon purple mountain!--far and wide

His mellow radiance streams; the steep hill-side

Is clothed with splendor, and the distant town

Wears his last glory like a blazing crown.

We cannot see him now, and yet his fire

Still lingers on the city's tallest spire,--

Chased slowly upward by the gathering frown

Of the approaching darkness. God of light!

Thou leavest us in gloom,--but other eyes

Watch thy faint coming now in distant skies:--

There drooping flowers spring up, and streams grow bright,

And singing birds plume their moist wings for flight,

And stars grow pale and vanish from the sight!

NEW-YORK SOCIETY, BY THE LAST ENGLISH TRAVELLER.

The Hon. HENRY COPE has lately published in London a _Ride across the

Rocky Mountains, to California_--a book abounding in striking adventure

and description, and illustrating in its general tone the spirit of an

English gentleman. Its temper and good sense may be inferred from the

following specimen, on the never-failing subject of Society in New-York:

"Any observations I might be tempted to make on New-York, or

even, I am inclined to think, on any of the civilized parts

of the states, would probably be neither novel nor

interesting. I am not ambitious of circulating more

'American notes,' nor do I care to follow in the footsteps

of Mrs. Trollope. Enough has been written to illustrate the

singularities of second-rate American society. Good society

is the same all over the world. General remarks I hold to be

fair play. But to indulge in personalities is a poor return

for hospitality; and those Americans who are most willing to

be civil to foreigners, receive little enough encouragement

to extend that civility, when, as is too often the case,

those very foreigners afterwards attempt to amuse their

friends on one side of the Atlantic, at the expense of a

breach of good faith to their friends on the other. Every

one has his prejudices: I freely confess I have mine. I like

London better than New-York, but it does not, therefore,

follow that I dislike New-York, or Americans either. I have

a great respect for almost every thing American--I do not

mean to say that I have any affection for a thorough bred

Yankee, in our acceptation of the term; far from it, I think

him the most offensive of all bipeds in the known world.

Yankee snobs too I hate--such as infest Broadway, for

instance, genuine specimens of the genus, according to the

highest authorities. The worst of New-York is its

superabundance of snobbism. The snob here is a snob "_sui

generis_" quite beyond the capacities of the old world.

There is no mistaking him. He is cut out after the most

approved pattern. If he differs from the original, or

whatever that might have been, it must be in a surpassing

excellence of snobbism which does credit to the progressive

order of things. Tuft-hunting is a sport he pursues with

delight to himself, but without remorse or pity for his

victim. It is necessary for the object of his persecutions

to be constantly on the alert. He is frequently seen

prowling about in white kid gloves, patent leather boots,

and Parisian hat. Whenever this is the case, he must be

considered dangerous and bloody-minded, for in all

probability he is meditating a call. Often he has been known

to run his prey to ground in the Opera or other public

places, and there to worry them within less than an inch of

their good temper. Offensive as he is, generally speaking,

he sometimes acts on the defensive; for, not very well

convinced of his own infallibility, he is particularly

susceptible of affronts, to which his assumed consequence

not unfrequently makes him liable. Baits are often proffered

by these swell-catchers to lure the unwary. Such as an

introduction to the nymphs of the _corps de ballet_; the

_entre_ to all the theatres, private gambling-houses, &c.,

&c. But beware of such seductions."

EMILIE DE COIGNY.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY RICHARD B. KIMBALL.

[Illustration: EMILIE DE COIGNY AND THE STUDENTS.]

A morning at _La Morgue_ is hardly as agreeable as a day at the Louvre,

yet it is not without a certain fascination. Let but the influence once

fasten on you, and it will be very hard to shake it off. At one period I

confess it was to me almost irresistible, and I shudder sometimes when I

recollect how punctually every morning at the same hour I took my place

on one side of that fearful room--not for the purpose of inspecting the

bodies of the suicides (I rarely turned to look at them), but to regard

the countenances of the anxious ones who came to realize the worst, or

to take hope till the morrow. Literally there are no spectators in that

dismal solitude--if we except an occasional visit from the foreign

sight-hunter, who comes in charge of a valet, and passes in and out and

away to the "next place." In London or in New-York, an establishment so

public would be thronged with persons eager to gratify a prurient

curiosity. Not so in Paris. The French possess a sensibility so

refined--it may be called a species of delicacy--that they cannot enjoy

such a spectacle, can scarcely endure it: and if the tourist will bring

the subject to mind, he will recollect that while his guide pointed out

the entrance, he himself declined going into the apartment.

I know not how it happened, but, as I have remarked, the habit of

visiting this spot every morning, was fastened on me. Never shall I

forget some of the faces I encountered there. One image is impressed on

me indelibly; it is that of a woman of middle age, with a very pale

face, and having the appearance of one struggling with some wearing

sorrow, who for two weeks in succession came in daily, and walking

painfully up to the partition, looked intently through the lattice work,

and turned and went away. I never before felt so strong an impulse to

accost a person, without yielding to it. Indeed I had resolved to speak

to her on the morning of the fifteenth day, but she did not come and I

never saw her again. Who was she? did her fears prove groundless? what

became of her? An old man I remember to have seen--a very old man,

feeble and decrepit, who came once only, looked at the dead, shook his

head despairingly, and tottered away: I know not if he discovered the

object of his search. Young girls who had quarrelled with their lovers,

and lovers who in moments of jealousy had been cruel to their

sweethearts, would look anxiously in, and generally with relieved

spirits pass out, almost smilingly, resolving no doubt to make all up

before night should again tempt to suicide. Another incident I cannot

omit, although it is impossible to recall it without a dreadful pang.

One morning a pretty fair-haired child, not more than four years old,

came running in, and clasping the wooden bar with one hand, pointed with

her little finger through the opening, and with a tone of innocent

curiosity said, "There's mamma!" The same moment two or three rushed in,

and seizing the unconscious orphan, carried her hastily away. She had

wandered after some of the family, and heard enough as they came from

the fatal place to lead her to suppose her lost mamma was there, and so

she ran to see. What could be the circumstances so untoward, that even

the child could not bind the mother to life?

A long chapter might be written of the occurrences at my singular

rendezvous, but I had no design, when I began, of alluding to them, and

I will only remark here that, leaving Paris some time after for the

south of Europe, I got rid of this nightmare impulse, and although I

returned the following season I never again entered _La Morgue_....

It was in the spring when I came back. The foliage was deep and green,

and in the _Jardin des Plants_, which was near my quarters, the various

flowers and shrubs and trees filled the atmosphere with fragrance, and

tempted us to frequent strolls along its avenues.

"Come with me at six o'clock," said my friend Partridge, "and you shall

see an apparition."

"Where?"

"I will not tell you, till we are on the Spot."

"I will go, but hope the rendezvous will be an agreeable one." Just

then, I know not why, I thought of _La Morgue_, and shuddered.

"The most agreeable in all Paris."

This conversation took place in the Hospital _de Notre Dame de Pitie_,

just as we were finishing our morning occupation of following the

celebrated LOUIS through the fever wards. Partridge was my room-mate,

and generally a fellow traveller, but I had left him behind in my late

tour, to devote himself more entirely to his medical pursuits, while I,

to my shame be it spoken, began to tire of the lectures of Broussais,

and the teachings of Majendie; and, even now that I had returned, was

tempted every day to slip across to the _Rue Vivienne_, where were

staying some fascinating strangers, whose acquaintance I had made _en

route_, and who had begun to engross me too much for any steady progress

in my studies; at least so thought Partridge, who shook his head and

said it would not do for a student to cross the Seine--he ought to stay

in his own _quartier_; that I had had too much recreation as it was--I

should forget the little I know, and as for the _Rue Vivienne_, and the

_Boulevard des Italiens_, the _Rue de la Paix_, &c., I must break off

all such associations or be read out of the community. I was glad,

therefore, to appease my friend by consenting to go with him--I knew not

where--and see an apparition.

Accordingly a few minutes before six, we started together on the strange

adventure. We passed down the street which leads to the _Jardin des

Plants_, and entering through the main avenue, walked nearly its entire

length, when my companion turned into a narrow path, almost concealed by

the foliage, which brought us into a small open space. Here he motioned

me to stop, and pointing to a rustic bench we both sat down. At the same

moment, the chimes from a neighboring chapel pealed the hour of six, and

while I was still listening to them, my friend seized my arm and

exclaimed in a whisper, "Look!" I cast my eyes across to the other side,

and beheld a figure advancing slowly toward us. It was that of a young

girl, in appearance scarcely seventeen. Her form was light and graceful,

simply draped in a loose robe of white muslin. On her head she wore a

straw hat, in which were placed conspicuously a bunch of fresh spring

blossoms. The gloves and mantelet seemed to have been forgotten. Her

demeanor was one of gentleness and modesty. She cast her eyes around as

if expecting to meet a companion, and then quietly sat down on a rude

seat not very far from where we were. I remained for ten minutes

patiently waiting a demonstration of some kind, either from my companion

or the strange appearance near us. But now I began to yield to the

influence of the scene. The sun was declining, and cast a mellow and

saddening light over the various objects around. Gradually as I gazed on

the motionless form of the maiden, I felt impressed with awe, which was

heightened by the solemn manner of my friend, who appeared as much under

the charm as myself. At length I whispered to him, "For Heaven's sake

tell me what does all this mean?" A low "Hush," with an expressive

gesture to enforce quiet, was the only response. I made no further

attempt to interrupt the silence, but sat spell-bound, always looking at

the figure, until I was positively afraid to take my eyes from it. Again

the chimes began their peal for the completion of the last quarter. It

was seven o'clock. The moment they ceased, the girl rose from her seat,

glanced slowly, sadly, earnestly around, pressed her hand across her

eyes, and proceeded in the path toward us. We both stood up as she came

near; my friend lifted his hat from his head in the most respectful

manner as the maiden passed, while she in return gazed vacantly on him,

and walking slowly by, disappeared in the direction opposite that from

which she came. We did not remain, but proceeded with a quickened pace

to our lodgings. Arrived there, I asked for an explanation of what we

had witnessed.

"Do you remember," said Partridge, "Alfred Dervilly?"

"Perfectly well. He was your room-mate after I left you last summer, and

twenty times I have been on the point of inquiring for him, but

something at each moment prevented. Where is he?"

"Dead."

"Dead! How, when?"

"Killed by the apparition yonder."

"Nonsense! Do not talk any more in riddles. Out with what you have to

say about Dervilly and the apparition, as you call it, and this

afternoon's adventure."

"_Bien_, let us light the candles, fasten the doors, close the windows,

and take a fresh cigar."

This was soon done, and accommodating himself to his seat in a

comfortable manner, my companion commenced:

"Yes--you recollect Dervilly of course, and must remember that before

you left us we used to joke him about a fair unknown, who was engaging

so much of his time."

"I had forgotten--but I now recall the circumstance; I remember, I was

walking with him near the 'Garden,' and he made some trivial excuse to

leave me and turn into it. You afterwards told me he had an appointment

there, but I thought little of it."

"Well, I will give you the story as I now have it, quite complete, for I

was partly in Dervilly's confidence, and was with him during his illness

and when he died. He was born in Louisiana, of French parents, who,

after spending some years in America, returned to their native country.

He spoke English fluently, as you know, and when you deserted me we

became very intimate. Then it was I learned how deeply the poor fellow

was in love, actually _in love_. No mere transitory emotion--no

momentary passion for an adventure--no affair of gallantry, was this:

his very being was absorbed--he became wholly changed--it seemed as if

he had bound himself, body and soul, to some spirit of another world. I

never saw, never read, of so engrossing a feeling. At last he confessed

to me. He said he had met, a few months before, at the house of a former

friend of his family, who had been of considerable consequence under the

previous reign, but was now reduced, and lived in obscurity, a creature

of most exquisite shape and feature, who proved on acquaintance to be

possessed with a loveliness of character, a modesty, an irresistible

charm of manner, which took him captive. Dervilly became completely

enamored with Emilie de Coigny. This he discovered to be her name, but

on inquiring of the persons at whose house he first met her, he could

get no satisfactory information; indeed a very singular reserve, as poor

Dervilly thought, was maintained whenever her name was mentioned, so

that he could not, in fact, glean the slightest particulars about her.

This did not prevent him from confessing his passion, for the girl came

frequently to this house, and their acquaintance ripened very fast.

Emilie de Coigny felt for the first time that her heart was occupied,

and all that restlessness of spirit caused by the unconscious longing of

the affections laid at rest, and Alfred Dervilly became the sole object

of her thoughts and of her hopes, if hopes she had. All this, I repeat,

Emilie de Coigny felt; but, singular to say, she hesitated to confess

what was in her heart, even when her lover passionately entreated; it

seemed as if something stood between her and happiness, to which she

feared to allude. It is not easy to deceive the _heart_, and Dervilly

knew, despite the apparent calmness of Emilie, despite her sometimes

cold demeanor, that he was loved in return. But one thing troubled and

perplexed him; one thing filled him with vague fears and apprehensions,

and checked the ecstatic feelings which were ready to overflow his

heart. A mystery hung about this beautiful girl; she claimed no one for

her friend, she spoke of no acquaintances, she never alluded to parents,

or to brother or sister, or other relation; she made no mention of her

home. Besides, a strange sadness, strange in one so young, seemed to

possess her, and to pervade her spirit, and while contemplating that

imperturbable countenance, Dervilly at times felt an awe come over him

for which he could not account, and which for moments subdued even the

force of his passion. It appeared to him then, as if he were under a

spell; but presently, when a gentle smile illumined her face, her eyes

would be turned on him so lovingly, and her look express, as plainly as

look could, that all her trust was in him and in him only. Dervilly

would forget every thing in the raptures of such moments; indeed in his

ecstasy he would be driven almost to madness; for of all characters,"

continued Partridge, "hers was the one to set a youth of ardent

temperament absolutely crazy. So matters advanced, or rather I should

say, so time advanced, while affairs did not. It was at this period,"

said my friend, "that Dervilly gave me his confidence. Our intimacy had

gradually increased from the hour of your leaving us, and at length he

unbosomed himself completely. My first impression, after hearing his

story, was that the pretty mademoiselle was no more nor less than an

arrant flirt; that her charms were magnified to a lover's vision, and

that the mystery which attended her would turn out to be no mystery at

all--so I treated the case lightly, laughed at his description, called

Mademoiselle Emilie a coquette, and added, a little seriously, that it

was a shame for her to trifle with so warm-hearted a fellow. You know

how grating are the disparaging remarks of a friend about one in whom we

confess to ourselves a deeper interest than we care to acknowledge. What

I had said was kindly intended, but it touched Dervilly to the quick. 'I

did not think you capable,' he exclaimed, 'of thus making light of my

confidence--I find I was deceived--you are at liberty to make as much

sport of me as you will. I have learned a lesson which I shall take care

to remember.' 'You must not speak so,' I said,' I really was not

serious. I take back every word. I would not wound you for the

world--forgive me.' Then we shook hands, and Dervilly assured me I had

misjudged his Emilie; he would ask her permission to introduce me, and I

should see for myself. The permission was never accorded, although

Dervilly urged to Mademoiselle de Coigny, that I was his best and almost

his only friend. She was unyielding; she would not see me. Meanwhile his

passion increased with every impediment--yet he gained no assurance of

its being returned, save what his heart whispered to him. In the

_Jardin des Plants_ they were accustomed to meet daily, when the weather

was propitious--so much Emilie yielded to her lover--and spend an hour

together; and if they could not meet in the open air, they repaired to

the house where they first became acquainted. On one occasion Dervilly,

unable to bear suspense any longer, seized her hand, and passionately

pledged himself, his existence, his soul, his all to Emilie de Coigny;

he swore his fate was indissolubly linked with hers, that their destiny

could not be severed, and he demanded from her an avowal of the truth of

what he said. The violence of Dervilly alarmed her; she drew her hand

from his, and looking him steadily in the face, inquired:

"'What has prompted Monsieur to this sudden show of feeling?'

"'Do you ask what?' exclaimed Dervilly; 'it is _you_. Are you not

answered? How can I resist what is inevitable? how curb myself when

_all_ hold is lost? Are you then so cruel? _Dieu merci!_ be not so

deadly calm--it means the worst for me--be angry, vexed, any thing, but

look not on me with that glazed look--it maddens me.'

"'Monsieur Dervilly,' said Emilie, without change of tone or manner,

'what you have said, if it means any thing, means every thing; it means

all a maiden longs to hear from lips that are beloved. To respond, I

must be assured how far your judgment will confirm what now seems to be

a mere passionate ebullition. Excuse me,' she continued, as Dervilly

made an impatient gesture; 'I have heard and read of similar

protestations which had little true significance.'

"'I accept any conditions,' interrupted the young man, 'and will bless

you from the depths of my soul for naming any, even the hardest; yes,

the hardest--I care not what, so that they are from you.' The girl

regarded Dervilly as if she would search his very nature. 'You are

silent--speak; I can no longer contain myself,' exclaimed he, wildly.

"'Monsieur,' once more observed Mademoiselle de Coigny, 'you know not to

whom you address yourself; should I tell you, you would retract all

those strong words, and hasten to escape in the least humiliating way

possible.'

"'Never. Heaven is my witness, never! I care not who you are; I will

never seek to know; when you choose, you shall inform me. You need never

tell me. I say, I care not, so that you are mine.'

"'And you will be _mine_ for ever?' said the girl, slowly.

"'For ever.'

"'I am yours--yours,' and Emilie de Coigny sunk into the arms of her

lover.

"In one instant the fortunes of Dervilly were changed--from despair he

was raised to a condition of delicious joy. His raptures were so

unnatural, that I cautioned him against such violent indulgence of them.

But he was too excited to listen to me. Indeed, I feared he would lose

his reason. It seemed as if more than ordinary passion had possession of

him, and that it was inspired by something unearthly; and, without ever

having seen the girl, I began to attribute to her a supernatural

influence. Besides, Dervilly confessed he knew as little of his

affianced as before, and that occasionally the same icy look would be

turned on him, as it were quite inadvertently, and hold him spell-bound

with horror, while it still served to increase his frenzy beyond all

bounds. Then, her endearing smiles, her truthful and confiding love, her

absolute reliance, her entire dependence, on Dervilly, made him so

frantic with happiness, that he lost all capacity to reason.

"The summer passed away, but Dervilly had learned nothing more of the

history of his betrothed; she still avoided the subject, and, when he

alluded to it, she would beg him to desist, and hide her face in his

bosom and weep.

"Strange thoughts at last found their way into his brain, fearful

surmises began to disturb his peace, and, when absent from Emilie, he

would resolve at their next interview, to insist on knowing all. But

when the time came, and he met, turned on him, the open and innocent

look of the maiden's clear eyes, which expressed so earnestly how

entirely her soul rested on his, all courage failed him, and he could

not go on.....

* * * * *

"One evening," continued Partridge, after a pause, and with the tone of

a person approaching an unpleasant subject, "One evening, after

dinner--I think it was the first week in September--when the day had

been excessively sultry, I strolled into the large garden, which you

recollect belonged to our old lodgings in the _Rue d' Enfer_ and after a

while sat down in the summer-house. Presently little Sophie Lecomte came

running out to me, and I remained amusing myself with the child's

prattle till it was dark. The moon shone brightly, and I did not

perceive how late it was, until reminded of the hour by finding that

Sophie was fast asleep in my lap. I rose and carried her into the house,

and went quietly to my room. I seated myself near the window without

lighting the candles, feeling that the glare would not just then

harmonize with my feelings. The truth is, I was thinking of you, and of

that romantic passage across the Apennines, and of the fair stranger,

and so forth. I sat by the window, the moonlight streaming across the

room, over the top of the old chapel, the windows and doors open, and

every thing still except the monotonous chirping of a single cricket,

louder than that of any French cricket I ever heard before, and which

sung the very same song I used to hear when a boy from under the large

kitchen hearthstone at home. I began to feel a little lonely, and so

started up, and stamped with my feet in order to silence the solitary

insect, or arouse the rest of the family, but the old one only sung the

harder, and the others would not wake, and I sat down again, and half

closed my eyes in order to lose myself, if I could, in some pleasant

revery. My eyes _were_ half closed, the perfume from the graperies

filled the room, and had a pleasant effect upon my senses, and thus I

began to forget where I was and what was about me. Presently I heard a

rapid unsteady step along the corridor; it grew more rapid and more

unsteady; I raised my head, and at that instant Dervilly hurried into

the room. 'I knew it--I knew it,' he exclaimed, wildly; 'one of the

sirens sent from hell! I have sold myself, body and soul!--I am

lost--lost. Ah! I knew it--I knew it.' Shocked and surprised as I was by

such an extraordinary scene, I did not forget that Dervilly was of a

most nervous and excitable temperament. I rose, took hold of him kindly,

and asked him what had happened. As I placed my hand on his head, I

perceived that the veins were distended, and that the carotid and

temporal arteries were throbbing violently. I hastened to strike a

light, while he continued to repeat nearly the words I have just

mentioned, in a wild and incoherent manner. I could now see his

countenance, and it seemed as if the destroyer had been ravaging it. His

cap was gone. His hair, which was usually so neatly arranged, was tossed

over his face in twisted locks; his eyes were fixed, and bloodshot, and

sparkling.

"'My dear friend, you are ill--you are excited--let me bring you to your

bed' (we occupied the large room in common, with a small bedroom for

each, leading from it); with this I took his arm, and gently urged him

to his apartment.

"'Not there, not there!' he cried vehemently; 'Have I not lain _there_,

night after night, thinking of her?--have I not dreamed there happy

dreams, and seen dear delightful visions? Not there--never--never

again!'

"'You shall not,' I said, endeavoring to humor him; 'you shall lie in my

bed, and I will watch by you till you are better.'

"The young man burst into tears. This action evidently relieved him, and

made him more rational, for he took my arm and I assisted him to bed,

and tried to soothe him; but he soon relapsed into an excited fever.

Shortly after, he called me to him, and throwing his arms closely around

me, exclaimed, 'Partridge, we were born in the same land; I implore you,

by that one common tie, not to leave me an instant; I am a doomed

wretch; but save me, save me from the fiend, as long as it is possible.'

"I now became very much alarmed. My first impulse was to administer an

opiate; but the case seemed so critical that I determined to send at

once for Louis, whose sympathy for the students, you know, is universal.

I called to young Stabb, who occupied the next room, and he set off

immediately. After a few minutes Dervilly dozed a little; and then he

started up, and gazed around, as if attempting to discern some object.

"'Do you wish for any thing?' I said. He took no notice of my question,

but continued to glance piercingly in every direction.

"'What do you see?' I asked.

"'_La Morgue!_' he exclaimed, with a shudder, and pointing into the

other room--'_La Morgue!_'

"He continued to gaze madly in the same way, still holding his arm

outstretched, while his whole frame seemed convulsed with terror; but I

could gain no clue to the catastrophe which had fallen so terribly on

the ill-fated sufferer.

"It seemed to me an age--it really was but an hour--before Stabb

returned. He was accompanied by Louis. It was the great Louis whose

skill as a physician, and especially in the treatment of fevers, is

world renowned. I had 'followed' him during the whole of your absence;

had become, as a matter of course, one of his warmest admirers; and was

fortunate enough to secure his friendship. He also knew Dervilly.

Hearing them enter, I stepped into the principal room, to meet him.

'_Mon Dieu! Monsieur Partridge, quel est le mal?_' said Louis, with

great feeling. 'Monsieur Dervilly was at the hospital in the morning,

and I met him as late as six o'clock this afternoon, passing into the

_Jardin des Plants_.'

"'God only knows,' I replied. 'Something horrible has suddenly befallen

him.' And I gave an account of what had occurred since Dervilly came to

his rooms. Louis was silent for a moment, and then began to question me

very minutely about him, while Stabb went in to keep watch over the poor

fellow.--Among other things, I mentioned his love affair; and believing

it to be my duty to do so, I told Louis, briefly, all Dervilly had

confided to me. He listened with great attention, and after I had

concluded, we passed into the little chamber where Dervilly lay. He

started up with violence as we came in, as if a severe paroxysm were

about to follow. He stared wildly on seeing Louis, and seizing his hand,

he exclaimed, 'Ah, _mon Professeur_, you are a very great man, and you

are very kind to come to me, but your knowledge avails nothing here,'

touching his forehead. Suddenly he extended his finger, and cried again,

'_La Morgue--La Morgue._'

"'What see you in _La Morgue_?' said Louis, tenderly.

"'See? _Her, her!_' screamed Dervilly.

"'Who, _mon enfant_? said the Professor, very gently.

"'Who, but the fiend--the fiend! She has my soul--lost, lost for ever.'

"'You should not speak so harshly of Mademoiselle de Coigny,' continued

Louis, in a soothing tone.

"'Pronounce not that name: a bait, a trap, a wile of Satan; repeat it,

and I will tear you piecemeal!' cried the maniac.

"'But, _mon pauvre enfant_, what does she at La Morgue?'

"'_She?_ the fiend--the fiend--sits perched on the top of the wooden

rail all night, watching--watching--and when some of the corpses show

signs of life, sails down, and sits upon, and strangles them. Keep me

away from there. Ah, _mon Professeur_, do not let me go there, to lie on

the board, and have her bending over me, eyeing me, watching me, ready

to strangle me. There again! keep those glazed eyes away--keep them

away, I say--'

"All this time Louis was making a minute examination of Dervilly's

symptoms.

"The latter presently seemed aware of what he was doing, for he

exclaimed, 'The usual symptoms, _eh, mon Professeur_; strongly marked,

_n'est ce pas_? Act promptly and decisively, as you say sometimes. Let

blood--let blood--_appliquez des sangsues_--ha, ha, ha! that's what we

call bleeding, both general and local, ha, ha, ha! then come on with

your cold applications: ice, ice, a mountain of ice piled round about

the head! follow up with cathartics, refrigerant diaphoretics, after

depleting blister!--say you not so?--blisters to the nape of the

neck--blisters behind the ears--shave the scalp--I forgot that--shave

the scalp--strange I had not thought of it,--and the hair. _Mon

Professeur_, I know you will think me very foolish, but--save the

hair--I shan't have another growth--save the hair. Where was I?--ah, the

blisters--that will pretty nearly do for me--keep every thing quiet,

very quiet--after a while, digitalis and nitre--digitalis and nitre,

_mon Professeur_--have I not said my lesson well?'

"Louis stood perfectly still, regarding the poor fellow with a mournful

interest. As Dervilly paused, he took off his spectacles, and wiped his

eyes. 'Ah, Monsieur Louis, you talk very eloquently about medical

science, but I baffle you; I am sure of it. Call the class

together--_Ah, Notre Dame de Pitie_--call the class together; _voila la

clinique_. Thus being thus, it must necessarily be thus. That's a wise

saying, _mon Professeur_. Call the class together; propound why of

necessity you can do nothing? because of a necessity nothing can be

done. Call the class together; be active--vigorously antiphlogistic;

time is precious--the patient in danger. Purgatives--I doubt as to

purgatives. What think you?' And Dervilly paused, and cast on Louis a

look so naturally inquiring, that the latter replied, as it were,

involuntarily, '_Moi aussi je doute._' And it was so; with all his

genius, all his knowledge, all his experience, and all his skill, the

great practitioner stood, while minute after minute was lost, apparently

hesitating what to do. At last he called me into the other room. 'Is it

not possible to find Mademoiselle de Coigny?' he inquired.

"'I have no means of knowing where to seek her,' I replied. At the same

time I remembered she was in the habit of visiting the house in which

Dervilly first met her, and fortunately knew the street and number.

"'Let her be sent for instantly,' said Louis. 'Do not go yourself; you

may be of service here.' Accordingly I gave Stabb the direction, and

instructed him to procure Mademoiselle de Coigny's address, if possible;

but if he were unsuccessful in this, to communicate the fact of

Dervilly's alarming illness, and beg that Mademoiselle might be

immediately summoned.

"We returned to the sick room, and Louis, seating himself in a chair,

remained lost in thought for nearly a quarter of an hour, while I did

what I could, to pacify the sufferer. I could not help wondering that a

man, so prompt and so efficient, should lose a moment when the least

delay was to be avoided; and as I was reflecting on this, Louis rose so

suddenly from his seat that I was startled. 'There is but one course,

and the poor boy has very accurately defined it. Let his head be shaved,

and pillowed in ice; bleed him at once--if he faints, all the better.'

'No danger of that,' shouted Dervilly. 'No syncope with me but the

_last_ syncope--no syncope--ha, ha, ha! double the ounces--you are

timid--no syncope, I say--' He continued the whole time raving, much in

the manner I have described. The room was kept quite dark, and no one

was permitted to come in. Louis did not leave the bedside the entire

night. Dervilly never slept for an instant. On one occasion he threw

himself close on one side, and screamed, 'Take her away--take her away!'

"'What is it?' I asked.

"'Do you not see her?' he shrieked, 'sitting on the bed, looking into my

eyes; take her away, take her away!'

"I need not detail to you," continued Partridge, "the whole of these

fearful scenes. Late in the evening Stabb returned; he had found the

house; and although he could not obtain Mademoiselle de Coigny's

address, he was promised that his message should be communicated early

in the morning.

"'It will be too late,' said Louis, mournfully.

"What a long night it was. The morning dawned at last, but it brought no

change to poor Dervilly. I had sent for his nearest relative, who lived

over on the _Boulevard Poissonniere_, and was awaiting his arrival with

considerable anxiety. It was not later than nine. Stabb, the good

fellow, had relieved me from my watch, and I was in the sitting-room, in

my large arm-chair, still anxious and fearful, when there came a slight

tap at the door; it opened--and Emilie de Coigny stood before me. Ah,

how beautiful she was, yet how terrified! It was not terror of

excitement--mere surface passion--but from the depths of her soul. She

was stirred by intense emotion. 'Tell me,' she said, coming earnestly up

to me, 'tell me where he is, and what has happened to him!' I put my

finger on my lips to prevent her from saying more, and led her to the

further corner of the room; but she would not sit down; she begged to be

told every thing at once; and I, in a low voice, gave Mademoiselle do

Coigny a minute account of all I had witnessed. When I came to

Dervilly's exclamation, '_La Morgue--La Morgue_,' the young girl became

suddenly very pale, her fortitude forsook her, and she murmured faintly,

'He saw me go in--he saw me go in.' I must admit I was, for the moment,

not a little tremulous. I recollected stories of devils taking

possession of the dead bodies of virgins, in order to lure young men to

perdition. I thought of the tale of the German student, who, on retiring

with his bride, beheld her head roll from her body (she had been

guillotined that morning), leaving him wedded to the foul fiend. In

spite of me, I looked on the pale stricken creature before me as in one

way or another connected with the adversary, and holding a commission

from the Prince of the Power of the Air. I had little time for thought

on the subject, for Mademoiselle de Coigny insisted on seeing Dervilly.

I hesitated, but she was decided. She threw aside her pretty straw hat,

and a light shawl, and stepped toward the apartment where her lover lay.

She passed the threshold before he saw her. She called him by his name,

'Alfred.' He turned, and as his eyes fell on her, he uttered mad

exclamations; crouching frantically in the furthest corner of the bed.

'Avaunt,' he screamed; 'vampyre--devil--owl of hell--come no nearer,

(she still advanced, calling to him tenderly); I know that syren voice;

it has damned and double damned me.--Partridge! Stabb! take her away,

or,' he continued, in a fierce tone, 'I will do second execution on

her.'

"Poor girl--it was too much--she swooned away....

"You may imagine that it was a terrible scene," continued Partridge. "I

set to work immediately for her recovery, having first carried her out

of the room where Dervilly lay. She opened her eyes at last, but what a

look of anguish was in them! 'Is he better?' she asked in a faint tone.

I shook my head. 'Tell me,' she exclaimed, 'will he die? oh, will he,

_must_ he die?'

"'He is very sick, Mademoiselle.'

"'I have killed him, I have killed him,' she cried.

"'Pardon me', said I, 'Monsieur Dervilly is in great danger; still if we

knew the cause of this dreadful attack we might gain some advantage by

it.'

"'Ah, it is my work,' murmured the fair mystery to herself, without

heeding my observation; 'I have done it, and if he dies, I am a

murderer--_his_ murderer.' She appeared no way disposed to betray her

secret, and I did not press the subject. Presently Louis came in. He

made his inquiries of me, and then went to the patient. There was no

change, except in the increase of fatal symptoms. The delirium was more

furious, the pulse hard, full, frequent, and vibrating. The most

vigorous course was adopted; two other students were called in to assist

Stabb and myself, and every means used to give effect to the prescribed

treatment.

"As for Mademoiselle de Coigny, she remained in the sitting-room, the

picture of intense anguish. I urged her to retire, but she shook her

head. I now begged her to tell me what had caused this strange attack,

but she was silent. At length I went and called Madame Lecomte--you

recollect what a kind-hearted creature she was--and told her briefly the

little I knew of the unfortunate girl. She answered the summons at once,

and in the most gentle manner endeavored to persuade Mademoiselle de

Coigny to go with her. It was in vain. She would not leave the room.

Occasionally, through the day, she would step to Dervilly's bedside, and

in the softest, sweetest, gentlest tone I ever heard, say, 'Alfred.' The

effect was always the same as at first--exciting the poor fellow to

still deeper paroxysms, and more violent exclamations. On the fourth day

he died; the symptoms becoming more and more aggravating, until _coma_

supervened to delirium. During the whole period of his sickness

Mademoiselle de Coigny never left the house--scarcely the room--Madame

Lecomte on two or three occasions almost forcing the wretched girl away

to her own apartments. When poor Dervilly sunk into that deep lethargic

slumber, so much dreaded by the physician, because so fatal, she came

almost joyfully into his chamber, and threw her arms tenderly around

him, 'He sleeps at last,' she said, 'is it not well?'

"I would have given the world for the freedom of bursting into tears, so

deeply was I affected by that hopeful, trustful question. What could I

do, but shake my head mournfully and hasten out of the place.... He

died, and made no sign; not a word, not a look, not the slightest

pressure of the hand, for the one he loved so tenderly, and who watched

so anxiously for some slight token. 'Oh,' I exclaimed to myself, as the

hardness of such a fate was impressed on me, 'God is just, there is a

hereafter, these two _must_ meet again.' ... Emilie de Coigny left the

room where her dead lover lay, only when he himself was borne to his

last resting-place. She followed him to the spot where he was buried in

_Pere la Chaise_, and remained standing by it after every one else had

come away. In this position she was found--standing over the grave--late

at night by her friends--some members of the family I have

mentioned--who sought her out. She left that splendid city of the dead

bereft of reason, and so she has ever since continued. When the day is

fine, she invariably keeps her fancied engagement with her lover at the

appointed place in the _Jardin des Plants_; she patiently sits the hour,

and retires sadly, as you saw her. When the weather is forbidding, she

goes to her friend's house and waits the same period, never showing the

least symptom of impatience, but, on the contrary, evincing the signs of

a bruised but most gentle spirit." ...

Here Partridge paused, as if at the end of his story.

"Is that all?" said I.

"That is all," he responded.

"Surely not," I continued; "you have said nothing about the strange

mystery which killed our poor friend, and which, as it seems to me, is

the main point, in the story."

"True enough--it is singular I should have left it out, but it is

explained in a word. These same friends of Mademoiselle de Coigny gave

me the information. It appears that on one inclement night, as the

_keeper of the Morgue_ was returning from an official visit to the Chief

of Police, toward his own quarters, which are adjoining and over the

_dead room_--he stumbled over something which a flash of lightning at

the instant showed to be the body of a man. He was quite dead, but,

nestled down close by his side, with one of her little hands on his

face, was a child, about two years of age. Jean Maurice Sorel, although

long inured to repulsive sights, had not grown callous to misery. By

birth he was considerably above his somewhat ignominious office; he had

narrowly escaped with his life when Louis XVI. was brought to the

scaffold, for some indiscreet expressions that savored too much of

royalty; but in the tumults which succeeded, he had, he scarcely knew

how, through some influence with the chief of one of the departments,

been appointed to this repulsive duty. But as I have said, his heart was

just as kind as ever, after many years discharge of it; and Jean Maurice

Sorel, instead of repining at his lot, blessed God daily that he had the

means of supporting a wife and children, while so many of his old

friends had literally starved to death. Such was the person who stumbled

over the body of the dead man, and discovered the living child beside

it. He called at once for assistance, and had the corpse conveyed to his

house, while he carried the little girl in his arms. She was too young

to give any information about herself, but on searching the pockets of

the deceased, several papers were found which disclosed enough to

satisfy Jean Maurice Sorel that in the wasted, attenuated form before

him, he beheld his once friend and benefactor the Marquis de Coigny,

who, he supposed, had perished by the guillotine in the revolution. The

papers permitted no doubt of the fact that the little girl was his

granddaughter and only descendant, and she was commended to the care of

the kind-hearted when death should overtake him.

"The old Marquis was buried, and the little Emilie adopted into the

family of the good Jean Maurice. Her education was conducted in a manner

far superior to that of his own children, and the choicest garments of

those which fell to him were selected to be made over for her. Perhaps

unwisely, her history was explained to her, so that she lived all her

life with the sense that she belonged in a different sphere--not that

she was ungrateful or unamiable--quite the contrary--she was sweet

tempered, affectionate and gentle, and loved by Jean Maurice and all his

family with a devoted fondness: but the world had charms for her which

the world withheld; she felt that she never could become an object of

love where she could love in return, and so she repined at her destiny.

By accident she made the acquaintance of the family where Dervilly first

met her. They had known her father and her grandfather, and she loved

them for that. She resisted for a long time the feeling for her lover

which she perceived was taking strong hold of her, and when she could

resist no longer, she yet delayed to tell him what a home she inhabited.

This was her pride--her weakness--and how terribly did she pay the

penalty! Day after day (so I was told), she resolved to explain all, but

she procrastinated, till her lover, no longer able to restrain his

anxiety, and full of excitements and fears and perturbations, followed

her at some little distance, just at twilight, and saw or fancied he saw

her enter _La Morgue_. It was too much for his nervous temperament. His

brain caught fire--he came home raving with delirium--and DIED! Now you

have the whole."

A LEGEND.

TRANSLATED FOR THE INTERNATIONAL FROM THE SPANISH,

BY MRS. M. E. HEWITT.

"Sin vos, y sin Dios y mi."

The motto that with trembling hand I write,

And deep is traced upon this heart of mine,

In olden time a loyal Christian knight

Bore graven on his shield to Palestine.

"_Sin vos_," it saith, "if I am without thee,"

Beloved! whose thought surrounds me every where--

"_Sin Dios_," I am without God, "_y mi_,"

And in myself I have no longer share.

Where pealed the clash of war, the mighty din,

Where trump and cymbal crashed along the sky;

High o'er the "Il Allah!" of the Moslemin,

"God and my lady!" rang his battle-cry.

His white plume waved where fiercest raged the flight,

His arm was strong the Paynim's course to stem:

His foot was foremost on the sacred height,

To plant the Cross above Jerusalem.

False proved the lady, and thenceforth the knight,

Casting aside the buckler and the brand,

Lived, an austere and lonely anchorite,

In a drear mountain-cave in Holy Land.

There, bowed before the Crucifix in prayer,

He would dash madly down his rosary,

And cry "Beloved!" in tones of wild despair,

"I have lost God, and self, in losing thee!"

And I, if thus my life's sweet hope were o'er,

An echo of the knight's despair must be;

Thus I were lost, if loved by thee no more,

For, ah! myself and heaven are merged in thee.

CAGLIOSTRO, THE MAGICIAN.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE.

BY CHARLES WYLLYS ELLIOT.

"Know, then, that in the year 1743, in the city of Palermo, the family

of Signor Pietro Balsamo, a shopkeeper, were exhilarated by the birth of

a boy. Such occurrences have now become so frequent, that, miraculous as

they are, they occasion little astonishment;" and, it may be well to

add, that, except in some curious cases, there is no longer that

exhilaration now felt, but, as in Ireland, a leaden sense of future woe.

We are not told by the parents that any strange or miraculous appearance

attended or preceded this advent, though one cannot but believe that the

future Archimagus and his followers must have had a more or less

distinct opinion upon this point. Not to lose time in speculation, we

learn that "we have here found in the Count Alessandro di Cagliostro

(the above-named boy), pupil of the sage, Altholas--foster-child of the

Scherif of Mecca--probable son of the last king of Trebizond; named also

Acharat, and unfortunate child of nature; by profession, healer of

diseases, abolisher of wrinkles, friend of the poor and impotent,

grand-master of the Egyptian Mason lodge of High Science, spirit

summoner, gold cork, grand cophta, prophet, priest, and thaurmaturgic

moralist and swindler; really a LIAR of the first magnitude;

thorough-paced in all provinces of lying, what one may call their king."

Under the common tent, the great canopy of life, it would not be fair to

prejudge the mind of the reader upon so grave a thing as character,

which we are now considering--it might be best to let each come to an

after-thought respecting it--upon our caustic and noble author let the

blame, if any, hang, while we now proceed to dip in, here and there, to

his magic page.

As the boy grows, we learn, that "as he skulks about there, plundering,

pilfering, playing dog's-tricks, with his finger in every mischief, he

already gains character. Shrill housewives of the neighborhood, whose

sausages he has filched, whose weaker sons maltreated, name him Beppo

Maldetto, and indignantly prophecy that he will be hanged--a prediction

which the issue has signally falsified." We also may learn, what, in the

treatment of our whole subject it is extremely important to remember,

that, in the "boy," a "brazen impudence developes itself, the crowning

gift," &c. "To his astonishment," though, "he finds that even here he is

in a conditional world, and if he will employ his capability of eating

(or enjoying) must first, in some measure, work and suffer. Contention

enough hereupon; but now dimly arises, or reproduces itself, the

question. Whether there were not a _shorter_ road--that of stealing!"

But how he was entered into the convent, and under the convent

apothecary proceeded to learn certain arts and mysteries of the retorts

and alembics (which lucky knowledge, after that, came to use), while he

was learning his other trade of monkery and mass-chanting, we will omit.

It is enough to know, that he would not answer for the convent, and was

again afloat on the wide sea of existence. That he floated is certain;

for "he has a fair cousin living in the house with him, and she again

has a lover. Beppo stations himself as go-between; delivers letters;

fails not to drop hints that a lady to be won or kept must be generously

treated; that such and such a pair of ear-rings, watch, or sum of money,

would work wonders: which valuables, adds the wooden Roman biographer,

he then appropriated furtively." Slowly but certainly he makes his way:

"tries his hand at forging" theatre tickets--a will even, "for the

benefit of a certain religious house;" and, further on, can tell

fortunes, and show visions in a small way--all these inspirations are

vouchsafed him, or, rather, these things he is permitted to do, and

others not to be mentioned here.

It is well to note, that in all times, and among all peoples, there is a

deep and profound conviction that there _is_ not only a "short and

certain" way of getting to heaven, and to know the eternal truths, but

also that these earthly treasures do exist, in untold quantity, in the

elements; and if one could only discover the secret by which the gases

could be condensed into solid gold, or the gnomes be persuaded or

compelled to give them up, ready solidified to hand, it would at least

save time and be satisfactory. It is only curious, as a matter of

speculation, to know what we shall eat when the lucky age arrives, and

spirits will do our bidding in this matter of gold and diamonds. The

"boy," as he grew, discovered this world-wide capacity; and who should

have this power of setting the "spirits" to work but he?

"Walking one day in the fields with a certain ninny of a goldsmith,

named Marano, Beppo begins in his oily voluble way to hint that

treasures often lay hid; that a certain treasure lay hid there (as he

knew by some pricking of his thumbs, divining rod, or other talismanic

monition), which treasure might, by the aid of science, courage,

secrecy, and a small judicious advance of money, be fortunately lifted.

The gudgeon takes--advances, by degrees, to the length of 'sixty gold

ounces'--sees magic circles drawn in the wane or the full of the moon,

blue (phosphorous) flames arise--split twigs auspiciously quiver--and at

length demands, peremptorily, that the treasure be dug!"

Alas! why is it that the "spirits" so often fail us at our sorest need?

Do _they_ deceive us; and, if not, who does? The treasure vanishes, or

does not appear, "the conditions are imperfect," and the "ninny of a

goldsmith" being roughly handled by these spiritual visitants,

threatens to stiletto the adept; who, overcome with the ingratitude of

the world, concludes to quit;--at least, in the words of his Inquisition

biographer, "he fled from Palermo, and overran the whole earth."

We may see how he has grown--how, as in ordinary mortals, he advances

step by step--even he, the favorite son of the higher intelligences,

learns as he goes. How is it, then, that we can have no full-grown

inspiration; that we know of no perfection--that we only go on towards

it? Can it be that prophets and priests really do _learn_, and that even

now, men may grow into the future? Might not a more thorough and

scientific seminary for this purpose be established than any we now

have--theologic, thaumaturgic, theosophic, or other variety? It is a

question easier asked than answered.

"The Beppic Hegira brings us down in European history to somewhere about

the period of the peace of Paris"--(A.D. ----), supervening upon which

is a portentous time--"the multitudinous variety of quacks that, along

with Beppo, overran all Europe during that same period--the latter half

of the last century. It was the very age of impostors, cut-purses,

swindlers, double gaugers, enthusiasts, ambiguous persons, quacks

simple, quacks compound, crack-brained or with deceit prepense, quacks

and quackeries of all colors and kinds. How many mesmerists (so speaks

this strange author), magicians, cabalists, Swedenborgians, illuminati,

crucified nuns, and devils of Loudun! To which the Inquisition

biographer adds vampyres, sylphs, rosicrucians, free-masons, and an _et

cetera_. Consider your Schropfers, Cagliostros, Casanovas, Saint

Germains, Dr. Grahams, the Chevalier d'Eon, Psalmanazar, Abbe Paris, and

the Ghost of Cock-lane!--as if Bedlam had broken loose!"

The great, the inexplicable, the mysterious Beppo, being now fairly

afloat, let us try to comprehend how he has begun to touch upon the edge

of those trade winds, which shall drive him along toward the golden

Indies, Ophir, and the land of promise, for which the men of this world

do so hunger and thirst.

He married a beautiful Seraphina, afterward countess, graceful and

lady-like, once the daughter of a girdle-maker, and named Lorenza

Feliciani. Every one, simple or sedate, knows that it is best to hunt in

couples. What one has not the other may have. So Seraphina had beauty,

lightness, buoyancy, and could float up her count when the demons and

harpies of a certain troublesome devil, called law or justice, seemed

bent upon his swift destruction. Could she not, too, "enlist the

sympathies of admiring audiences"--by her sweet smiles and "artless

ways," gain belief, and "a wish to believe?" More than that, could she

not turn the heads of young and old? "noble" perhaps, perhaps

"ignoble"--"moneyed do-nothings" (so says this writer), whereof in this

vexed earth there are many, ever lounging about such (?) places--scan

and comment on the foreign coat-of-arms--ogle the fair foreign woman,

who timidly recoils from their gaze, timidly responds to their

reverences, as in halls and passages they obsequiously throw themselves

in her way. Ere long, one moneyed do-nothing (from amid his tags,

tassels, sword-belts, fop-tackle, frizzled hair, without brains beneath

it) is heard speaking to another--"Seen the countess?--divine creature

that!" Indeed, one cannot but wonder that any should question the unity

of the race, at least, of those known as "civilized." In a small way, or

in a large way, how this thing ever goes on--on church steps, on

Broadways, in Metropolitan Halls, Congresses, the Palais-Royal, at home

and abroad! And men do yet call _this_ "reverence for the sex," and holy

sentiment; and indulge in hallelujahs to that hoary myth, "a gentleman

of the old school;" while women--God help us--women loving it, hate

those who, hating it, hate hollowness and hell. With slight imagination,

then, one may see how important an element this "divine creature" must

have become in any conjuration or mystic "renovation of the universe,"

which the high mystagogue might be impressed to set on foot. Enough,

that _she_ helped and learned the arts of prophecy and perfection faster

than her master! But we read--alas! alas!--"As his seraphic countess

gives signs of withering, and one luxuriant branch of industry will die

and drop off, others must be pushed into budding." He, the indefatigable

count, is not idle. "Faded dames of quality (over all Europe, all

creation) have many wants: the count has not studied in the convent

laboratory, or pilgrimed to the Count St. Germain, in Westphalia, to no

purpose. With loftiest condescension he stoops to impart somewhat of his

supernatural secrets--for a _consideration_. Rowland's Kalydor is

valuable; but what to the beautifying water of Count Alessandro! He that

will undertake to smooth wrinkles, and make withered, green parchment

into a fair carnation skin, is he not one whom faded dames of quality

will delight to honor? Or, again, let the beautifying-water succeed or

not, have not such dames (if calumny may in aught be believed) another

want? This want, too, the indefatigable Cagliostro will supply--for a

consideration. For faded gentlemen of quality the count likewise has

help. Not a charming countess alone, but a "wine of Egypt" (Cantharides

not being unknown to him), sold in drops, more precious than nectar;

which, what faded gentlemen of quality will not purchase with any thing

short of life. Consider, too, what may be done with potions, washes,

charms, love-philters, among a class of mortals idle from their mother's

womb," &c., &c.

It is well to know, once for all, that the count, chief-priest of his

order--which yet thrives, and if not great, deserves to be called for

its number, Legion--made money out of this his enterprising trade; that

he was enabled to pay his way; to ride post with the ever potent

"voucher of respectability, a coach-and-four," with out-riders and

beef-eaters, and couriers and lackeys, and the other paraphernalia which

the greedy tooth of man desires--which helps one forward so far toward

happiness, provided always that "there _is_ no heaven above and no hell

beneath," of which let each first make sure; and more than all, let such

as wish to travel this road, take great courage from the contemplation

of this one model.

We must hasten to the year 1776, a year rather noted in our annals, and

in that of England, perhaps, independently of this the "first visit" of

the famed Count Cagliostro to its shores, which happened then. Should it

have so chanced that he had lived now, would he have stopped there does

the reader think? Having an insight into _their_ national character, and

finding "great greed and need," and but small heed, what might he not

have done on this transatlantic shore, whose free people can so nobly

cherish even its Barnum, its----, its----! But let names go. We make the

most of what we have, and if not equal to the greatest, the fault rests

not on our shoulders. We are not responsible for the past, if for the

present or future.

'Twas in England that the master developed most bravely the art of

prophecy; perhaps finding there a demand for his supply--such, according

to some, being the only law of God or man. It is enough to know that he

does a trade in foretelling the lucky lottery numbers by means of his

"occult science," whereby at least he put money in _his_ purse, and

satisfied good-natured men that as there were gulls, and necessarily a

guller, he above all others deserved praise and not blame; the whole

thing, this life, being really a juggle, and the smartest fellow of

course the best juggler. As man goes on he developes, so many think--so

did Cagliostro, and in his growth he reaches to masonry--Egyptian

masonry--and in "sworn secrecy" finds a new Talisman, for which men will

pay five guineas each. He resolves to "free it from all vile

ingredients, and make it a new Evangile." "No religion is excluded from

the Egyptian society"--for is it not certain that religion _pays_?

Charity too, pays, as we shall see by-and-by. No religion is

tabooed--none--all who admit the existence of a God, and the immortality

of the soul, may, for the small sum of five guineas, be certain to gain

"perfection by means of a physical and moral regeneration." He promises

them by the former or physical to find the _prime matter_ or

philosopher's stone, and the _acacia_ which consolidates in man the

forces of the most vigorous youth, and renders him immortal; and by the

latter or moral, to procure them a Pentagon which shall restore man to

his primitive state of innocence, lost by his original sin. It must be

understood that this masonry was founded by Enoch and Elias, had been

corrupted by the Egyptian priests, but was now restored to its pristine

vigor by its last and greatest Grand Cophta, and includes not only men

but women, of whom the Countess Seraphina is Cophtess.

We cannot do better than to gain some insight into the forms and

symbolic practices of these worshippers; and especially will those who

desire to practise this or any short and easy way to perfection or

happiness, be glad to learn what has been done, and thus be encouraged

to begin.

In the _Essai sur les Illumines_, printed in Paris in 1789, are the

following details quoted by this before-mentioned known author.[1] These

bear an air of truth and probability which will win for them easy

admission. Many of them are not unlike what we have seen amongst us

during the few past years.

"They take a young lad or a girl who is in the state of innocence: such

they call the _Pupil_ or _Colomb_: the Venerable communicates to him the

power he would have had before the fall of man; which power consists

mainly in commanding the pure spirits: these spirits are to the number

of seven. It is said they surround the shrine, and that they govern the

seven planets. Their names are Arael, Michael, Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel,

Zobiachel, Anachiel." Nothing certainly can begin more favorably. We

learn that "she the Colomb," can act in two ways, either behind a

curtain, behind a hieroglyphically-painted screen with table and three

candles, or before the Caraffe and showing face. If the _miracle fail_

it can only be because she is not "in the state of innocence." _An

accident must be guarded against._ Surely our mystic professors, both

clerical and lay, will take heed to these things. Much may be learned.

Cagliostro accordingly (it is his own story) brought a little boy into

the lodge, son of a nobleman there. He placed him on his knees before a

table, whereon stood a bottle of pure water, and behind this some

lighted candles. He made an exorcism round the boy, put his hand on

head, and both in this attitude addressed their prayers to God for the

happy accomplishment of the work. Having then bid the child look into

the bottle, directly the child cried that he saw a garden. Knowing

hereby that Heaven assisted him [why this is so proven he does not

explain], Cagliostro took courage, and bade the child ask of God the

grace to see the Archangel Michael. At first the child said, "I see

something white; I know not what it is." Then he began jumping and

stamping like a possessed creature, and cried, "Now, I see a child like

myself, which seems to have something angelical (!)" _All the assembly

and Cagliostro himself remained speechless with emotion...._ [How like

this is to what we at this day have seen.] The child being anew

exorcised with the hands of the Venerable on his head, and the customary

prayers addressed to Heaven, he looked into the bottle, and said he saw

his sister at that moment coming down stairs, and embracing one of her

brothers. That appeared impossible, the brother in question being then

hundreds of miles off. However Cagliostro felt not disconcerted; said

they might send to the country-house, where the sister was, and see--if

they chose!

Do some still doubt? Time nor paper will allow us to allay that doubt.

We must, as rapidly as we can, introduce what may yet be useful in

certain cases of the like kind, either in whole or in part. It is the

introduction of a novice into the holy Mysteries.

"The recipiendary is led by a darksome path into a large hall, the

ceiling, the walls, the floor of which are covered by a black cloth,

sprinkled over with red flames and menacing serpents; three sepulchral

lamps emit from time to time a dying glimmer, and the eye half

distinguishes, in this lugubrious den, certain wrecks of mortality

suspended by funeral crapes; a heap of skeletons forms in the centre a

sort of altar; on both sides of it are piled books; some contain menaces

against the perjured; others the deadly narrative of the vengeance which

the invisible spirit has exacted; of the infernal evocations for a long

time pronounced in vain.

"Eight hours elapse. Then phantoms, trailing mortuary vails, slowly

cross the hall and sink in caverns, without audible noise of trapdoors

or of falling. You notice only that they are gone by a fetid odor

exhaled from them.

"The novice remains four and twenty hours in this gloomy abode, in the

midst of a freezing silence. A rigorous fast has already weakened his

thinking faculties. Liquors prepared for the purpose first weary and at

length wear out his senses. At his feet are placed three cups, filled

with a drink of a greenish color. Necessity lifts them to his lips:

involuntary fear repels them.

"At last appear two men: looked upon as the ministers of Death. These

gird the pale brow of the recipiendary with an auroral-colored-ribbon

dipped in blood, and full of silvered characters mixed with our lady of

Loretto. He receives a copper crucifix, of two inches length: to his

neck are hung a sort of amulets wrapped in violet cloth. He is stripped

of his clothes; which two ministering brethren deposit on a funeral

pile, erected at the other end of the hall. With blood on his naked body

are traced crosses. In this state of suffering and humiliation, he sees

approaching with large strides five Phantoms armed with swords, and clad

in garments dropping blood. Their faces are vailed: they spread a velvet

carpet on the floor; kneel there, pray; and remain with outstretched

hands crossed on their breasts, and faces fixed on the ground in deep

silence. An hour passes in this painful attitude. After which fatiguing

trial, plaintive cries are heard; the funeral pile takes fire, yet casts

only a pale light; the garments are thrown on it and burnt. A colossal

and almost transparent figure rises from the very bosom of the pile. At

sight of it the five prostrated men fall into convulsions insupportable

to look on: the too faithful image of those foaming struggles wherein a

mortal, at hand-grips with a sudden pain, ends by sinking under it.

"Then a trembling voice pierces the vault, and articulates the formula

of those execrable oaths that are to be sworn: my pen falters: I think

myself almost guilty to retrace them."

Strange as it may seem, we stop here with Monsieur the Author. Strange

too that some deny the reality of all this--and tell of magic lanterns

and science--stranger still that men are who believe all--all--'tis to

them a spasmodic miracle, and he is an infidel of course who doubts.

Strange too is it, that men do not see here the monstrous power of what

is called Symbolism, and that they should not help nor hinder; who say,

Let the world go--who cares! Men live and women too who say, "There's

_something_ in it"--there must be! and is there not? Figure now all this

boundless cunningly devised agglomerate of royal arches, deaths' heads,

hieroglyphically painted screens, "columns in the state of innocence,

with spacious masonic halls--dark, or in the favorablest theatrical

light-and-dark: Kircher's magic lantern, Belshazzar handwritings (of

phosphorus), plaintive tones, gong-beatings, hoary head of a

supernatural Grand Cophta emerging through the gloom--and how it all

acts, not only directly through the foolish senses of men, but also

indirectly connecting itself with Enoch and Elias, with philanthropy,

immortality," &c. Let such as _will_ now say there is nothing in

it--something there is, for a thoughtful man to consider well of, asking

himself what also does this of clairvoyance, and spiritual knockings,

and Jenny-Lind manias, and Jerkers--truly mean? and what kind of a

person am _I who have had_ part and lot with these?

But the lofty science of Egyptian Masonry flourishes, lodges are

established over Europe, and the Grand Master travels hither and

thither, "mounts to the seat of the Venerable, and holds high discourse,

hours long, on masonry, morality, universal science, divinity, and

things in general," with a "sublimity, and emphasis and unction,"

proceeding it appears "from the special inspiration of the Holy Ghost."

He is received with shouts and exultation--every where the great heart

of man thrills at the coming of this mystic symbol, which

contains--cunningly enfolded, as their eyes can and do see--every

virtue, every greatness--is he not indeed the Incarnation of these, and

therefore to be worshipped; such gift of reverence is in the heart of

man, and to such things does he again and again bow down!

To go on. Cheers, and the ravishment of thronging audiences can make him

maudlin; render him louder in eloquence of theory; and "philanthropy,"

"divine science," "depth of unknown worlds," "finer feelings of the

heart"--and so shall draw tears from most asses of sensibility. "The few

reasoning mortals scattered here and there, that see through him,

deafened in the universal hub-bub, shut their lips in sorrowful disdain,

_confident in the grand remedy, Time_." So says our author, and can we

blame him? Will the reader allow the current of this prosperity to be

checked for one moment by a certain Count M.? One of the chosen few at

Warsaw, who having spent the night with the "dear Master," in conversing

with spirits, had returned to the country to transmute metals

perhaps--perhaps to do other mighty works. Count M. seems to have been

afflicted with doubts, to have supposed that by sleight-of-hand the

"sweet Master" had substituted the crucible with melted ducats, for the

other--carefully filled with red lead, "smelted and set to cool," "and

now found broken and hidden among these bushes"--the whole golden

crucible standing in its place. "Neither does the Plenagon or Elixir of

Life, or whatever it was, prosper better--our sweet master enters into

expostulation--swears by his great God, and his honor, that he will

finish the work and make us _happy_." In vain--"the shreds of the broken

crucible lie there before your eyes"--and the usurper has its place.

That "resemblance of a sleeping child, grown visible in the magic

cooking of our Elixir, proves to be an inserted rosemary leaf. The Grand

Cophta cannot be gone too soon."

Already it has been said that "Charity pays," philanthropy, benevolence,

all these--sometimes? if one sows his bread on the waters shall he not

expect its return after many or after few days?--the sooner the better

for your Cagliostros, your Barnums. Shout it daily to an envious

world--"Am I not a charitable man? If I have done wrong myself (as who

has not?) has not a great deal of good _grown out_ of my wickedness? I

have therefore done my share, for which if the world has paid me in

'praise and pudding,' it is no more than it has done before, and will do

again!" Take courage!

Cagliostro doctors--heals--the poor, for nothing!--even gives them

alms--does a great deal of good--who but he? At Strasburg in the year

1783 (year of our peace with England), he "appears in full bloom and

radiance, the envy and admiration of the world. In large hired

hospitals, he with open drug-box (containing 'Extract of Saturn'), and

even with open purse, relieves the suffering poor; unfolds himself

lamblike, angelic, to a believing few, of the rich classes. Medical

miracles have at all times been common, but what miracle is this of an

occidental or oriental Serene-highness that 'regardless of expense,'

employs himself in curing sickness, in illuminating ignorance?" We at

the present day know nothing like it; the mere giving of a few surplus

hundreds or thousands to certain Slavery, Anti-Slavery, Peace,

Temperance or other societies, is benevolence of the "rocking chair"

species--is not to be mentioned with this, of the self-denying

Cagliostro's diving into cellars, and mounting into garrets, to seek and

to save--at the risk of not only life but comfort--the first of which

happily was not thus sacrificed:--nor indeed on the whole was comfort

lost sight of, as the "coach-and-four with liveries and sumptuosities

bears witness." There is often profound wisdom in this thing called

_public_ or newspaper charity. Does it--or does it not--pay?

The favorite of the gods, he who holds high discourse with spirits, and

to whom is opened the hidden secret of earth and heaven, finds ready

acceptance--backed as he is by charities, by elegancies: finds

acceptance with the poor, the ignorant to whom he ministers--but also

"with a mixture of sorrow and indignation" it is recorded, among the

great--and not only they, but among the learned, "even physicians and

naturalists." It does not seem worth while to expend sorrow and

indignation upon this fact, not at all new, as we now fifty years

farther along have discovered; for we can show our physicians and

naturalists, and also our priests and prophets, in small crowds with

whom marvels find acceptance. We shall see more of them by and by.

But one among the rich and great, was the Cardinal Prince Count Rohan,

Archbishop of Strasburg. "Open-handed dupe," as some term him--now out

of favor with the Queen Marie Antoinette (after that beheaded and called

unfortunate). Banished from his beloved Paris and the sunshine of

royalty, what should he do but to regain his pedestal? necessary no

doubt, for the glory of God, and his church; necessary at least for the

Count Rohan. Cagliostro is all powerful--he will help the Cardinal

Prince--not only by philters and charms, but by prophecies from the

gods, who speaking through their earthly oracle, will of course (it

paying best), promise success and not failure. The Archbishop tries all

things, and at last the far-famed "diamond necklace," upon the queen,

which no woman's heart can withstand, not even the queen's. Sad to tell,

the miserable queen knew nothing of the necklace; and only the Md'lle De

la Motte, styled countess, by superior arts had outjuggled Cagliostro

himself, Cardinal Rohan, queen and all: the diamonds were gone--the

queen's character blackened, cardinal, cophta, and countess, all in the

Bastille, where they lay some nine months (year 1781), disastrous

months, when "high science" wasted itself in eating out its own heart.

Cagliostro escaped, was let go--but a plundered, banished, suspected

high priest, was quite another thing from a golden cophta, with the

foreign coat-of-arms, serene countess--and open purse relieving the

unfortunate.

Cagliostro now flits to England, to Bale, to Brienne, to Aix, to Turin,

he wanders hither and thither; we cannot follow him. The end of all, the

lofty and the low, must come--that seems drawing near to Cagliostro

too--but how? not in ruddy splendor as of departing day, not quiet,

serene, as of nature sinking to rest--rather like the disastrous death

of the bleeding shark it seems: his brethren, his friends--- sharks of

his own kind, of all kinds, high and low--rush upon the wounded shark,

as to a banquet to which they were bidden. He is exiled here, he is

persecuted there--imprisonment, despair, degradation haunt him--the

houseless, unfortunate--now vagabond, once renovator of the human race,

and friend of lords and friend of gods and princes. Such is gratitude!

such is popular favor! a thing to be bought and bargained for, to be

given when _not needed_. Such, no doubt, Cagliostro decided!

He is sore bested, and begins "to confess himself to priests," for a man

must do something in his extremity. It avails him not; he is at last in

the gripe of the holy Inquisition at Rome, "in the year of our Lord,

1789, December 29," and must match himself with a power which this world

knows something of: face to face, hand to hand, at last. Have they

juggles equal to his juggles, miracles equal to his--high science equal

to his--legions of angels equal to his?--enough that they have dungeons,

and sbirri--and in his case, hearts harder than the nether

mill-stone--not to be softened "by demands for religious

books"--assertions of the divinity of the Egyptian Masonry--promises of

wonderful revelations--oaths, flatteries, or any of the mystic

paraphernalia of the now powerless professor and prophet: they will not

let him out! but rather will introduce him to a new art, that of

becoming a Christian, and get him, the toughest in a tough time, into

heaven as they best can. Did they find Loyola's twenty days sufficient,

and was the article then turned out of hand complete for that other

state? The Inquisition biographer does not dwell upon this, it was

perhaps as well. We learn at last that he died in the year 1795, and

went, the writer says, "_Whither_ no man knows!" So ended a Magician!

NEW HAVEN, Feb., 1852.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] T. Carlyle.

BITTER WORDS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

Bitter words are easy spoken;

Not so easily forgot;

Hearts it may be can be broken--

Mine cannot!

When thou lovest me I adore thee;

Hating, I can hate thee too;

But I will not bow before thee--

Will not sue!

Even now, without endeavor,

Thou hast wounded so my pride,

I could leave thee, and for ever--

Though I died!

THE MURDER OF LATOUR.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY HON. W. H. STILES.[2]

The cabinet remained in deliberation at the Ministry of War, situated at

the corner of the square called the Hof. The tide of insurrection now

rose to an unconquerable height. The nearest shots of the retiring

cannons, the advancing shouts of the infuriated people, warned the

ministers that all defence was rapidly becoming hopeless. The building

itself still offered some means of resistance, and there were two

cannons in the court; but at that crisis was issued a written order,

signed by Latour and Wessenberg, "to cease the fire at all points," and

given to officers for distribution.[3] It was in vain. The popular

torrent rolled on toward the seat of government, which was destined ere

long to be disgraced by atrocious crime. The minister of war, Count

Latour, prepared for defence. The military on guard in front of the war

office were withdrawn into the yards, with two pieces of artillery

loaded with grape. The gates were closed, the military distributed to

the different threatened points, and the cannons directed towards the

two gates; soon the scene of battle had reached the Bogner Gasse,

immediately under the windows of the war department; the ministers in

consultation heard the cry, "The military retreat." The great square of

the Hof was soon cleared, the soldiers retiring by the way of the

Freyung. The guards and academic legion pursuing; the military

commander's quarters in the Freyung are soon captured. The retiring

military not being able to escape through the Schotten-Thor, as they had

expected, that gate being closed and barricaded, they cut their way

through the Herrn Gasse.

So intent were the respective combatants, either in retreat or pursuit,

that the whole tempest of war swept over the Hof, and left that square,

for a short time, deserted and silent.

But that stillness was but of short duration; a few moments only had

elapsed, when a number of straggling guards, students, and people, came

stealing silently from the Graben, through the Bogner, Naglus, and

Glosken Gasse, on to the Hof, and removed the dead and the wounded into

the neighboring dwellings, and into the deserted guard-house in the war

department. These were soon followed by a fierce and noisy mob, armed

with axes, pikes, and iron bars, which halted before the war office, and

began to thunder at its massive doors.

The officer of ordnance in vain attempted to communicate to the crowd

the order of the ministry, that all firing should cease. A member of the

academic legion, from the window, over the gateway, waved with a white

handkerchief to the tumultuous masses, and, exhibiting the order signed

by Latour and Wessenberg, read its contents to the crowd.

But a pacification was not to be thought of; the people were too

excited, their fury could only be appeased by blood; that delayed

measure was not sufficient; they made negative gesticulations, and

summoned the student to come down and open the portals to their

admission. The tumult increased from minute to minute; the closed doors

at length gave way under the axes of the mob, and the people streamed

in, led by a man "in a light gray coat."

The secretary of war, having by this time abandoned the idea of defence,

on the ground either that it was useless or impolitic, no shots were

fired or active resistance offered; but the orderlies with their horses

retired to the stables, and the grenadiers into an inner court. At first

only single individuals entered, and their course was not characterized

by violence; then groups, proceeding slowly, listening, and searching;

and, at last the tumultuous masses thundered in the rear.

Ere long the cry rung on the broad staircase, "Where is Latour? he must

die!" At this moment the ministers and their followers in the building,

with the exception of Latour himself, found means to escape, or mingled

with the throng. The deputies, Smolka, Borrosch, Goldmark, and

Sierakowski, who had undertaken to guarantee protection to the

threatened ministers, arrived in the hope of restraining the mob. The

numerous corridors and cabinets of the war office (formerly a monastery

of the Jesuits) were filled with the crowd; the tide of insurrection now

rose to an uncontrollable height; and the danger of Latour became every

moment more imminent.

The generals who were with him, perceiving the peril, entreated him to

throw himself upon the Nassau regiment or the Dutch Meister grenadiers,

and retreat to their barracks. He scorned the proposal, denied the

danger, and even refused, for some time, to change his uniform for a

civilian's dress, until the hazard becoming more evident, he put on

plain clothes, and went up into a small room in the roof of the

building, where he soon after signed a paper declaring that, with his

majesty's consent, he was ready to resign the office of minister of war.

A Tecnicker, named Ranch,[4] who, it was said, had come to relieve the

secretary of war, was seized and hung in the court by his own scarf, but

fortunately cut down by a National Guard before life was extinct. The

mob rushed into the private apartment of the minister, but plundered it

merely of the papers, which were conveyed to the university. They came

with a sterner purpose. The act of resignation, exhibited to the crowd

by the deputy Smolka, was scornfully received by the people, while the

freshness of the writing, the sand adhering still to the ink, betrayed

the proximity of the hand which had just traced it. Meanwhile, the crowd

had penetrated the corridors of the fourth story, and were not long in

discovering the place of Latour's concealment. Hearing their approach,

and recognizing the voice of Smolka, vice-president of the assembly, who

was doubtless anxious to protect him, Latour came out of his retreat.

They descended together from the fourth story by a narrow stairway, on

the right-hand side of the building, and entered the yard by the pump.

At each successive landing place, the tumult and the crowd increased;

but the descent was slow, and rendered more and more difficult by the

numbers which joined the crowd at every turn of the stairs. At length

they reached the court below, and Count Latour, although he had been

severely pressed, was still unhurt; but here the populace, which awaited

them, broke in upon the group that still clustered around Latour, and

dispersed it. In vain did the deputies, Smolka and Sierakowski, endeavor

to protect the minister; in vain did the Count Leopold Gondrecourt

attempt to cover him by the exposure of his own body. A workman struck

the hat from his head; others pulled him by his gray locks, he defending

himself with his hands, which were already bleeding. At length a

ruffian, disguised as a Magyar, gave him, from behind, a mortal blow

with a hammer, the man in the gray coat cleft his face with a sabre, and

another plunged a bayonet into his heart. A hundred wounds followed,

and, with the words, "I die innocent!" he gave up his loyal and manly

spirit. A cry of exultation from the assembled crowd rent the air at

this event. Every indignity was offered to his body; before he had

ceased to breathe even, they hung him by a cord to the grating of a

window in the court of the war office. He had been suspended there but a

few minutes when, from the outrages committed on it, the body fell.

They then dragged it to the Hof, and suspended it to one of the bronze

candelabras that adorn that extensive, and much frequented square, and

there treated it with every indignity; it remained for fourteen hours

exposed to the gaze of a mocking populace.

FOOTNOTES:

[2] A chapter from Mr. Stiles's forthcoming work on Austria, which we

have mentioned elsewhere in this number of the International.

[3] The last order issued by the unfortunate Latour was instructed to

Colonel Gustave Schindler, of the imperial engineers, an efficient

officer, as well as a most amiable and accomplished gentleman, and one

well and favourably known in the United States, from his kind attention

to Americans who have visited the Austrian capital. The colonel was in

the act of passing out of the great door of the war office, which opens

on the Hof, when the mob reached that spot. Recognized by his imperial

uniform, he was instantly surrounded and attacked. He received many

blows on the head, inflicted by the crowd with clubs and iron bars; was

most severely wounded, and would probably have been killed but for the

timely interference of one of the rabble, who, riding up on horseback

between the colonel and the mob, shielded him from further blow, and

finally effected his escape.

[4] A student of the Polytechnic school, for brevity, usually called

Tecnickers.

SOME SMALL POEMS.

WRITTEN FOR THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE,

BY R. H. STODDARD.

SONG.

I hung upon your breast in pain,

And poured my kisses there like rain;

A flood of tears, a cloud of fire,

That fed and stifled wild desire,

And lay like death upon my heart,

To think that we must learn to path;

For we must part, and live apart!

Had I, that hour of dark unrest,

But plunged a dagger in your breast

And in mine own, it had been well;

For now I had been spared the hell

That racks my lone and loving heart,

To think that we must learn to part;--

For we must part, and die apart!

LU LU.

The shining cloud that broods above the hill,

Casts down its shadows over all the lawns,

The snowy swan is sailing out to sea,

Leaving behind a ruffled surge of light!

Lu Lu is like a cloud in memory,

And shades the ancient brightness of my mind:

A swan upon the ocean of my heart,

Floating along a path of golden thought!

The light of evening slants adown the sky,

Poured from the inner folds of western cloud;

But in the cast there is a spot of blue,

And in that heavenly spot the evening star!

The tresses of Lu Lu are like the light,

Gushing from out her turban down her neck;

And like that Eye of heaven, her mild blue eye,

And in its deeps there hangs a starry tear!

THOSE WHO LOVE LIKE ME.

Those who love like me,

When their meeting ends

Friends can hardly be,

But less or more than friends!

With common words, and smiles,

We cannot meet, and part,

For something will prevent--

Something in the heart!

The thought of other days,

The dream of other years;

With other words, and smiles,

And other sighs and tears!

For all who love like me,

When their parting ends,

Friends must never be,

But more or less than friends!

TO THE WINDS

Blow fair to-day, ye changing Winds!

And smooth the story sea;

For now ye waft a sacred bark,

And bear a friend from me.

From you he flies, ye Northern Winds,

Your Southern mates to seek;

So urge his keel until he feels

Their kisses on his cheek:

And when their tropic kisses warm,

And tropic skies impart,

Their floods of sunshine to his veins,

Their gladness to his heart--

Blow fair again, ye happy Winds!

And smooth again the sea,

For then ye'll waft the blessed bark,

And bear my friend to me!

"WIND OF SUMMER, MURMUR LOW."

Wind of summer, murmur low,

Where the charmed waters flow,

While the songs of day are dying,

And the bees are homeward flying,

As the breezes come and go.

Come and go, hum and blow,

Winds of summer, sweet and low,

Ere my lover sinks to rest,

While he lies upon my breast,

Kiss his forehead, pale and fair,

Kiss the ringlets of his hair,

Kiss his heavy-lidded eyes,

Where the mist of slumber lies;

Kiss his throat, his cheek, his brow,

And his red, red lips, as I do now,

While he sleeps so sound and slow,

On the heart that loves him so,

Dreaming of the sad, and olden,

And the loving, and the golden

Wind of summers long ago!

THE LATE ELIOT WARBURTON.

The melancholy fate of the author of _The Crescent and the Cross_,

_Canada_, _Darien_, &c., has been stated in these pages. In Great

Britain, where he was well known and highly esteemed by literary men,

there have been many feeling and apparently just tributes to his memory,

one of the most interesting of which is a memoir in the _Dublin

University Magazine_, from which we transcribe the following paragraphs:

"It was during an extended tour in the Mediterranean about

ten years ago, that Mr. Warburton sent some sheets of

manuscript notes to Mr. Lever, at that time Editor of the

_Dublin University Magazine_. These at once caught that

gentleman's attention, and he gladly gave them publicity,

under the title of "Episodes of Eastern Travel," in

successive numbers of the magazine, where they were

universally admired for the grace and liveliness of their

style. Mr. Lever, however, soon saw that though for the

purposes of his periodical these papers were extremely

valuable, the author was not consulting his own best

interests by continuing to give his travels to the world in

that form; and, with generous disinterestedness, advised him

to collect what he had already published, and the remainder

of his notes, and make a book of the whole. Mr. Warburton

followed his advice, entered into terms with Mr. Colburn,

and published his travels under the title of 'The Crescent

and the Cross.'

"Of this book it is needless for us to speak. In spite of

the formidable rivalry of an 'Eothen,' which appeared about

the same time, it sprang at once into public favor, and is

one of the very few books of modern travels of which the

sale has continued uninterrupted through successive editions

to the present time. Were we to pronounce upon the secret of

its success, we should lay it to its perfect

_right-mindedness_. A changeful truth, a versatile propriety

of feeling initiates the author, as it were, into the heart

of each successive subject; and we find him as profoundly

impressed with the genius of the Holy Land, as he is

steeped, in the proper place, in the slumberous influences

of the dreamy Nile, upon whose bosom he rocks his readers

into a trance, to be awakened only by the gladsome

originality of these melodies which come mirthfully on their

ears from either bank. And, we may observe in passing, it is

precisely the _want_ of this, which prevents the

indisputable power and grace of 'Eothen' from having their

full effect with the public.

"Passages of beauty, almost of sublimity, stand isolated

from our sympathies by the interposed cynicism of a few

caustic remarks; and scenes of the world's most ancient

reverence and worship become needlessly disenchanted under

the spell of some skeptical sneer.

"But we must not turn aside to criticise. Since the

publication of the 'Crescent and the Cross,' Mr. Warburton

has written, or edited, a number of works, some historical,

others of fiction, of which his last romance, 'Darien,' only

appeared as he was on the eve of departing on the fatal

voyage. It has been remarked as a singular circumstance,

that in this tale has prefigured his own fate. A burning

ship is described in terms which would have served as a

picture of the frightful reality he was himself doomed to

witness. The coincidence, casual as it is, has imparted a

melancholy interest to that story, which will long be wept

over as the parting and presaging legacy of a gifted spirit,

prematurely snatched away.

"These lighter effusions most probably grew out of the

craving of the publishers for the _prestige_ of his name,

already found to be valuable even on title-pages; and the

ready market they commanded could not but prove an

excitement to continue and multiply them. This might be

considered in an ulterior sense unfortunate; for we are

inclined to think that the true bent of Mr. Warburton's

mind, if not of his talents, was towards graver and less

imaginative studies; and we know that this propensity was

growing upon him with maturer years and soberer reflections.

"It is not exclusively from the bearing of his researches

and the general drift of his correspondence that we infer

this; though both set latterly in that direction. He had for

some time been actually at work with definite objects in

view. One subject which he took up warmly was a _British_

History of Ireland; that is, a history intended to deal

impartial justice between the Irish people on the one side,

and the British empire on the other; reviewing the politics

of successive periods, neither from the Irish nor the

English side of the question, but with reference to the

general interests of the whole.

"The task, would have proved an arduous one, under any

circumstances--perhaps an invidious one; but what was worse,

even when accomplished, the book might have turned out a

dull affair. So, with a view to lightening the reading, he

had proposed to embody with it memoirs of the Viceroys, thus

keeping the British connection prominent, while enlivening

the pages with biographical touches.

"Acting on these ideas, he had actually begun a 'History of

the Viceroys' in conjunction with a literary friend, and was

only deterred from prosecuting it by the apathy, or rather

discouragement, of the London publishers, who felt no

inclination to venture upon an Irish historical speculation.

Unfortunately, neither he nor his friend could afford to

pursue the task gratuitously, and it was accordingly

abandoned.

"Still later, he employed himself in collecting materials

for a History of the Poor--a vast theme; perhaps too vast

for a single intellect to grasp. To him, however, it was a

labor of love; and he had succeeded in getting together a

considerable mass of curious and valuable material _pour

servir_. His last visit to his native country had researches

of this nature for one of its objects; and we are sure many

persons connected with the charitable institutions of

Dublin, will recollect the persevering zeal with which he

visited the haunts of poverty, as well as the asylums for

its relief, noting down every thing which might prove

afterwards serviceable on that suggestive topic.

"With an upwelling of philanthropy so pure and perennial as

this, the preliminary investigations could have been only a

delight to him. Other men might be forced to them as a

revolting duty; he chose the inquiry, with very dubious

hopes of bettering himself by prosecuting it, because his

heart was full of compassion, and he thought he might do

good. We repeat, what we can state from personal knowledge,

that the bent of Mr. Warburton's mind was latterly towards

works of general utility; and it is with great satisfaction

we learn, what we had not been aware of until the public

papers announced it, that his projected visit to the New

World was a mission, in which the interests of humanity were

to have in him an advocate and champion.

"Into his private life we feel that, under present

circumstances, it would be indelicate, as well as out of

place, to enter. Surrounded as he was with all the blessings

which the domestic relations can bestow, beloved by his

intimates, caressed by the gifted and the good, Eliot

Warburton lived the centre of a radiating circle of

happiness. His personal qualities were of no common order.

His society was eagerly sought after. With a fastidious

lassitude of air, and an apparent disinclination to

exertion, he possessed remarkable force of thought and

fluency of diction; and it was no uncommon thing to see him,

when he had begun to relate passages from his experience in

foreign countries, or adventures in his own, the centre of a

gradually increasing audience, amidst which he sat,

improvisating a sort of romantic recitation, until he was

completely carried away on the current of his own eloquence,

and lost every sense of where he was or what he was doing,

in the enthusiasm he had fanned up and saw reflected around

him. This power was a peculiar gift; and he loved to

exercise it. In this form many of his happiest effusions

have been given utterance to; and every body who has heard

him at such inspired moments has felt regret that the

brilliant bursts which so delighted him, should have been

stamped upon no more retentive tablets than the ears of

ordinary listeners.

"Of this amiable, refined and gifted individual, we are

afraid to speak as warmly as our heart would dictate. Before

us lie the few hasty lines--but not too hurried to be the

channel of a parting kindness--scrawled to us on the first

day of this year--the last day the writer was ever to pass

in England. They are, perhaps, amongst the latest words he

ever wrote. 'I am off,' they run 'for the West Indies

to-morrow. _But I have accomplished your affair._' Oh,

vanity of human purpose! Man proposes--God disposes. We were

next to hear of him, standing on the deck of the burning

vessel in the Atlantic, alone with the captain, after every

other soul had disappeared, surveying--we feel convinced,

with a courage of a lion--the awful twofold death close

before him, and which he had in probability deliberately

preferred to an early relinquishment of his companions to

their fate. It is a fine picture--one that shall every hang

framed with his image in our memory; helping us to believe

that

"'-----Lycidas our sorrow is not dead.

Sunk though he be beneath the watery flood,'--

But that he hath mounted to a higher sphere--

"'Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves.'"

AUTHOR OF "THE FOOL OF QUALITY."

Of the interesting papers in the February Dublin University Magazine, we

have read none with more satisfaction than the biographical sketch and

portrait of one of the most distinguished Irishmen of his own or any

age, the gifted and pure minded author of _Gustavus Vasa_ and _The Fool

of Quality_, HENRY BROOKE. Of his literary fate it might be said that

the most unfortunate thing he did was to assert the patriotism of Dean

Swift; and the most unfortunate thing was to be left out of Doctor

Johnson's "Lives of the Poets." Trials had he to undergo, although not

absolutely driven to the wall, like many children of "the fatal dowry,"

and those of Irish complexion, in particular; but he bravely bore up

against them. Those who deem that relatives may live more happily apart,

and that friendship is best preserved in full dress, may look at the

picture of Henry Brooke, the poet and politician, and Robert Brooke, the

painter, with their wives and children, not less than twenty, living

together in perfect peace and amity at Daisy Park, in the flattest part

of Kildare, where, in those dull seats and distant times, a family

breeze might now and then have been looked on in the Irish sense as a

"convenience and a comfort." "While Henry wrote," says the biographer,

"Robert painted, and sold his pictures; and thus these two loving

brothers, having lost their property, made a right and manful use of

their intellectual gifts, and supported their large families by the

sweat of their brows."

"In his politics, Brooke was of the old whig school; and,

had he lived in 1829, he would probably have been an

emancipator. He was a right-minded, ardent Irishman in his

love for fatherland; hated oppression; idolized liberty;

wrote most keenly against Poyning's infamous laws; mourned

over the misrule and misgovernment of his country, under the

tyranny and rapacity of the Stuart dynasty; admired King

William, and was an exulting Protestant; yet greatly loved

his Roman Catholic neighbors, and would preserve to them

their properties, though he disliked their principles, and

deprecated their ascendency."

Dr. Johnson's feelings respecting Brooke are accounted for, not

improbably, as follows:

"It may be asked why did Dr. Johnson exclude Brooke from his

'Lives of the Poets,' where so many names of little note are

to be found? In 1739, Johnson had written in Brooke's praise

in his 'Complete Vindication,' and twenty years afterwards,

when the learned Dr. Campbell showed a spirited 'Prospectus

of a History of Ireland' written by him, to the great

moralist, he read it with much pleasure and praise, saying

that 'every line breathed the true fire of genius.' It is

recorded that, on this occasion, Johnson lamented that 'the

vanity of Irishmen, even if their patriotism were extinct,

did not enable Brooke to carry his design into execution.'

In Johnson's letter to Charles O'Connor we have his mind on

the subject. To Brooke he appears never to have written;

there had been an ancient quarrel between them. They had

argued and disagreed; and the traditionary story in Brooke's

family bears _so_ heavily on the manner of the philosopher,

and is _so_ flattering to the courtesy of the poet, that we

should prefer not to write it down. Brooke was at all times

strangely careless of fame; independent to a fault, and more

proud than vain; and though much urged by his friends to

humble himself, yet he could not be induced to 'bow down' to

the cap of this literary Gesler, much as he regarded his

learning and noble intellect. This dislike of the Doctor

continued during his life; and Boswell narrates that on the

occasion of a play being read to him (it was Brooke's

_Gustavus Vasa_) and a circle of friends, on coming to the

line--

"Who rules o'er free men should himself be free!'

the company applauded, but Johnson said it might as well be

said--

"'Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat--'

a stupid and inapt verbal sophism, and unworthy of his great

and good mind; but such was often his way. In this fashion

one might string endless parodies on the line, and equally

inapplicable; for example:--

"'Who keeps a madhouse should himself be mad!'

"Mr. Brooke's elegant and honest mind probably had in view

that word of Scripture which saith, 'he that ruleth his own

spirit is better than he who taketh a city'--(Prov. xvi.

32.)

"By this unhappy difference Brooke lost his Johnsonian niche in the

temple of biographical fame. Yet we must remember that a better fate was

his,--'his record is on high,'--and his spirit with that Saviour who

loved him and made him what he was. Faults and inconsistency were in

him, no doubt, but still we know not of any of whom it could be so well

and suitably said--

"'His life was gentle, and the elements

So mixed him, that Nature might stand up

And say to all the world, 'This was a man.'"

BANCROFT'S AMERICAN REVOLUTION.[5]

From the Westminster Review.

Among the historians who have attained a high and deserved reputation in

the United States, within the last few years, we are inclined to yield

the first place to George Bancroft. His great work on the history of the

United States has been brought down from the commencement of American

colonization to the opening of the Revolutionary War, to which subject

it is understood that he intends devoting the three succeeding volumes.

His researches in the public offices of England, while he was Minister

of the United States at the Court of St. James, have brought to light a

great mass of documentary evidence on the antecedents and course of the

Revolution, which have not yet been made public. With his critical

sagacity in sifting evidence, his hound-like instinct in scenting every

particle of testimony that can lead him on the right-track, and his

plastic skill in moulding the most confused and discordant materials

into a compact, symmetrical, and truthful narrative, he cannot fail to

present the story of that great historical drama with a freshness,

accuracy, and artistic beauty, worthy of the immortal events which it

commemorates. Mr. Bancroft is now exclusively occupied in the

completion of this work. He pursues it with the drudging fidelity of a

mechanical laborer, combined with the enthusiasm of a poet and the

comprehensive wisdom of a statesman. With strong social tastes, he gives

little time to society. His favorite post is in his library, where he

labors the live-long day in the spirit of the ancient artist, _Nulla

dies sine linea_. His experience in political and diplomatic life, no

less than his rare and generous culture, and his singular union of the

highest mental faculties, enable us to predict with confidence that this

work will be reckoned among the genuine masterpieces of historical

genius. The volumes of the History of the United States already

published, are well known to intelligent readers both in Great Britain

and America. They are distinguished for their compact brevity of

statement, their terse and vigorous diction, their brilliant panoramic

views, and the boldness and grace of their sketches of personal

character. A still higher praise may be awarded to this history for the

tenacity with which it clings to the dominant and inspiring idea of

which it records the development. Whoever reads it without comprehending

the standpoint of the author, is liable to disappointment. For it must

be confessed that as a mere narrative of events, the preference may be

given to the productions of far inferior authors. But it is to be

regarded as an epic in prose of the triumph of freedom. This noble

principle is considered by Mr. Bancroft as an essential attribute of the

soul, necessarily asserting itself in proportion to the spiritual

supremacy which has been achieved. The history, then, is devoted to the

illustration of the progress of freedom, as an out-birth of the

spontaneous action of the soul. It is in this point of view that the

remarkable chapters on the Massachusetts Pilgrims, the Pennsylvania

Quakers, and the North American Indians, were written; and their full

purport, their profound significance, can only be appreciated by readers

whose minds possess at least the seeds of sympathy and cognateness with

this sublime philosophy. The chapter on the Quakers is a pregnant

psychological treatise. Sparkling all over with the electric lights of a

rich humanitary philosophy, it invests the theologic visions of Fox and

Barclay with a radiance and beauty which have been ill-preserved in the

formal and lifeless organic systems of their successors. The parallel

run by the historian between William Penn and John Locke is one of the

most characteristic productions of his peculiar genius. Original,

subtle, suggestive, crowded with matter and frugal of words, it brings

out the distinctive features of the spiritual and mechanical schools in

the persons of two of their 'representative men,' with a breadth and

reality which is seldom found in philosophical portraitures. Mr.

Bancroft was the son of an eminent Unitarian clergyman in Worcester,

Massachusetts. He was born about the beginning of the present century,

and is consequently a little more than fifty years of age. He graduated

at Harvard University, with distinguished honors, before he had

completed his fifteenth year. Soon after he sailed for Europe, and

continued his studies at the German Universities, returning to his own

country just before the attainment of his majority. Devoting himself for

several years to literary and educational pursuits, he acquired a

brilliant reputation as a poet, critic, and essayist; and at a

subsequent period, entering the career of politics, he has signalized

himself by his attachment to democratic ideas, and the eloquence and

force with which on all occasions he has sustained the principles with

the prevalence of which he identifies the progress of humanity.

* * * * *

From the Athenaeum.

The further this work proceeds, the more do we feel that it must take

its place as an essentially satisfactory history of the United States.

Mr. Bancroft is thoroughly American in thought and in feeling, without

ceasing to have those larger views and nobler sympathies which result

from cosmopolitan rather than from local training. His style is original

and national. It breathes of the mountain and the prairie--of the great

lakes and wild savannahs of his native land. A strain of wild and

forest-like music swells up in almost every line. The story is told

richly and vividly. It has hitherto been thought by Americans

themselves, even more than by Europeans, that the story of the English

colonies presented but a dreary and lifeless succession of petty

squabbles between the settlers and the crown officers--of unintelligible

persecutions of each other on the ground of differences of opinion in

religion. Mr. Bancroft has shown how ill founded has been this

impression. In his hands American history is full of fine effects.

Steeped in the colors of his imagination, a thousand incidents hitherto

thought dull appear animated and pictorial. Between Hildreth and

Bancroft the difference is immense. In the treatment of the former,

dates, facts, events are duly stated--the criticism is keen, the

chronology indisputable,--but the figures do not live, the narrative

knows no march. The latter is all movement. His men glow with human

purposes,--his story sweeps on with the exulting life of a procession.

Yet because Mr. Bancroft contrives to bring out the more romantic

aspects of his theme, it is not to be supposed that he fails in that

strict regard to truth--truth of character as well as of incident--which

is the historian's first duty, and without which all other qualities are

useless. Of all American writers who have written on the history of

their own country, we would pronounce him to be the most conscientious.

His former volumes were remarkable for the amplitude and accuracy of

their references. The authorities cited were often recondite and

obscure,--yet it was evident that they had been sifted carefully and

critically. The same may be said of the volume before us.

Careful research had enabled Mr. Bancroft to throw new light on several

points connected with the settlement and early history of his country.

As his dates approach nearer to the present time, the sources of new

information open on him in abundance. The MS, additions to our knowledge

of the times treated of in these volumes are considerable; but they are

spread pretty fairly over the entire narrative--lending a new light to

the events and adding a new trait to the characters--rather than thrown

into masses. The effect produced is more that of greater roundness and

completion than of absolute change in old historical verdicts. We quote

one out of innumerable instances of these minute but characteristic

additions. The historian is speaking of the Duke of Newcastle,--whose

ignorant government of the colonies was one of the chief sources of

their discontent:--

"For nearly four-and-twenty years he remained minister for

British America; yet to the last, the statesman, who was

deeply versed in the statistics of elections, knew little of

the continent of which he was the guardian. He addressed

letters, it used to be confidently said, to 'the island of

New England,' and could not tell but that Jamaica was in the

Mediterranean. Heaps of colonial memorials and letters

remained unread in his office; and a paper was almost sure

of neglect unless some agent remained with him to see it

opened. His frivolous nature could never glow with

affection, or grasp a great idea, or analyze complex

relations. After long research, I cannot find that he ever

once attended seriously to an American question, or had a

clear conception of one American measure."

Walpole had told us that Newcastle did not know where Jamaica was:--the

amusing address "Island of New England" Mr. Bancroft finds referred to

in a manuscript letter of J. Q. Adams. It serves to suggest that what is

usually thought to be a joke of Walpole's was probably the literal

truth:--the man who is sufficiently innocent of geography to make New

England an island, would have no difficulty in confounding the East and

West Indies.

In this volume we first meet with the great character who is to be the

hero of the Revolution now looming before the reader. Mr. Bancroft

treats us to no full-length portrait of George Washington:--instead of a

picture he presents us with the man. Washington comes before us at

twenty-one,--in the chamber of Governor Dinwiddie, of Virginia; from

whom he is accepting a perilous but most important mission--to cross the

forests, rivers, and mountains which separate Williamsburg and Lake

Erie, in the depths of a severe winter, and there endeavor to detach the

Delaware Indians from the French alliance. All the elements of

Washington's greatness--his courage, hardihood, military prescience, and

merciful disposition--are stamped indelibly on this the first act of his

public life:--

"In the middle of November, with an interpreter and four

attendants, and Christopher Gist as a guide, he left Will's

Creek, and following the Indian trace through forest

solitudes, gloomy with the fallen leaves, and solemn sadness

of late autumn, across mountains, rocky ravines, and

streams, through sleet and snows, he rode in nine days to

the fork of the Ohio. How lonely was the spot, where, so

long unheeded of men, the rapid Allegheny met nearly at

right angles 'the deep and still' water of the Monongahela!

At once Washington foresaw the destiny of the place. 'I

spent some time,' said he, 'in viewing the rivers;' 'the

land in the Fork has the absolute command of both.' 'The

flat, well-timbered land all around the point lies very

convenient for building.' After creating in imagination a

fortress and a city, he and his party swam their horses

across the Allegheny, and wrapt their blankets around them

for the night, on its northwest bank. From the Fork the

chief of the Delawares conducted Washington through rich

alluvial fields to the pleasing valley at Logstown. There

deserters from Louisiana discoursed of the route from New

Orleans to Quebec, by way of the Wabash and the Maumee, and

of a detachment from the lower province on its way to meet

the French troops from Lake Erie, while Washington held

close colloquy with the half-king; the one anxious to gain

the west as a part of the territory of the ancient dominion,

the other to preserve it for the Red Men. 'We are brothers,'

said the half-king in council; 'we are one people; I will

send back the French speech-belt, and will make the Shawnees

and the Delawares do the same.' On the night of the

twenty-ninth of November, the council-fire was kindled an

aged orator was selected to address the French the speech

which he was to deliver was debated and rehearsed; it was

agreed that, unless the French would heed this third warning

to quit the land, the Delawares also would be their enemies;

and a very large string of black and white wampun was sent

to the Six Nations as a prayer for aid. After these

preparations, the party of Washington, attended by the

half-king, and envoys of the Delawares, moved onwards to the

post of the French at Venango. The officers there avowed the

purpose of taking possession of the Ohio; and they mingled

the praises of La Salle with boasts of their forts at Le

Boeuf and Erie, at Niagara, Toronto, and Frontenac. 'The

English,' said they, 'can raise two men to our one; but they

are too dilatory to prevent any enterprise of ours.' The

Delawares were intimidated or debauched; but the half-king

clung to Washington like a brother, and delivered up his

belt as he had promised. The rains of December had swollen

the creeks. The messengers could pass them only by felling

trees for bridges. Thus they proceeded, now killing a buck

and now a bear, delayed by excessive rains and snows, by

mire and swamps, while Washington's quick eye discerned all

the richness of the meadows. At Waterford, the limit of his

journey, he found Fort Le Boeuf defended by cannon. Around

it stood the barracks of the soldiers, rude log-cabins,

roofed with bark. Fifty birch-bark canoes, and one hundred

seventy boats of pine, were already prepared for the descent

of the river, and materials were collected for building

more. The Commander, Gardeur de St. Pierre, an officer of

integrity and experience, and, for his dauntless courage,

both feared and beloved by the Red Men, refused to discuss

questions of right. 'I am here,' said he, 'by the orders of

my general, to which I shall conform with exactness and

resolution.' And he avowed his purpose of seizing every

Englishman within the Ohio Valley. France was resolved on

possessing the great territory which her missionaries and

travellers had revealed to the world. Breaking away from

courtesies, Washington hastened homewards to Virginia. The

rapid current of French Creek dashed his party against

rocks; in shallow places they waded, the water congealing on

their clothes; where the ice had lodged in the bend of the

rivers, they carried their canoe across the neck. At

Venango, they found their horses, but so weak, the

travellers went still on foot, heedless of the storm. The

cold increased very fast; the paths grew 'worse by a deep

snow continually freezing.' Impatient to get back with his

despatches, the young envoy, wrapping himself in an Indian

dress, with gun in hand and pack on his back, the day after

Christmas quitted the usual path, and, with Gist for his

sole companion, by aid of the compass, steered the nearest

way across the country for the Fork. An Indian, who had lain

in wait for him, fired at him from not fifteen steps'

distance, but, missing him, became his prisoner. 'I would

have killed him,' wrote Gist, 'but Washington forbade.'

Dismissing their captive at night, they walked about half a

mile, then kindled a fire, fixed their course by the

compass, and continued travelling all night, and all the

next day, till quite dark. Not till then did the weary

wanderers 'think themselves safe enough to sleep,' and they

encamped, with no shelter but the leafless forest-tree. On

reaching the Allegheny, with one poor hatchet and a whole

day's work, a raft was constructed and launched. But before

they were half over the river, they were caught in the

running ice, expecting every moment to be crushed, unable to

reach either shore. Putting out the setting-pole to stop the

raft, Washington was jerked into the deep water, and saved

himself only by grasping at the raft-logs. They were obliged

to make for an island. There lay Washington, imprisoned by

the elements; but the late December night was intensely

cold, and in the morning he found the river frozen. Not till

he reached Gist's settlement, in January, 1754, were his

toils lightened."

Washington reported the state of affairs on the Lakes,--and active

measures were consequently adopted. Of the rapid and brilliant

development of his military genius, we are not now to trace the

progress; but it is scarcely possible to read without a shudder of "the

hair-breadth 'scapes" of the young man whose life was of such

inestimable consequence to his country. Thus, in the battle fought by

Braddock--to whom Washington acted as aide-de-camp--against the French

and Indians in 1755, he appeared to others as well as to himself to bear

a charmed life. In this action, says Mr. Bancroft,--

"Of eighty-six officers, twenty-six were killed--among them,

Sir Peter Halket,--and thirty-seven were wounded, including

Gage and other field officers. Of the men, one half were

killed or wounded. Braddock braved every danger. His

secretary was shot dead; both his English aids were disabled

early in the engagement, leaving the American alone to

distribute his orders. 'I expected every moment,' said one

whose eye was on Washington, 'to see him fall.' Nothing but

the superintending care of Providence could have saved him.

An Indian chief--I suppose a Shawnee--singled him out with

his rifle, and bade others of his warriors do the same. Two

horses were killed under him; four balls penetrated his

coat. 'Some potent Manitou guards his life,' exclaimed the

savage. 'Death,' wrote Washington, 'was levelling my

companions on every side of me, but, by the all-powerful

dispensations of Providence, I have been protected.' 'To the

public,' said Davis, a learned divine, in the following

month, 'I point out that heroic youth, Colonel Washington,

whom I cannot but hope Providence has preserved in so signal

a manner for some important service to his country.' 'Who is

Mr. Washington?' asked Lord Halifax, a few months later. 'I

know nothing of him,' he added, 'but that they say he

behaved in Braddock's action as bravely as if he really

loved the whistling of bullets.'"

Thus opened that career of glory, moderation, and success--thus, at the

period of nascent manhood were exhibited the marking traits of that

serene and devoted character--which have placed the name of Washington

on the noblest and loftiest pedestal in the Temple of Fame.

Leaving for a while the only figure in that scene of miserable and

savage warfare on which the mind can dwell with any degree of trust and

satisfaction, we will move to the north-east of the English settlements,

and follow the story of the unhappy people of Acadia. Mr. Bancroft has

drawn a touching picture of the homely virtues and obscure happiness of

this rural population before the interference of the British officers

changed their joy into wailing, and endowed their simple annals with a

dark and tragic interest:--

"After repeated conquests and restorations, the treaty of

Utrecht conceded Acadia, or Nova Scotia, to Great Britain.

Yet the name of Annapolis, the presence of a feeble English

garrison, and the emigration of hardly five or six English

families, were nearly all that marked the supremacy of

England. The old inhabitants remained on the soil which they

had subdued, hardly conscious that they had changed their

sovereign. They still loved the language and the usages of

their forefathers, and their religion was graven upon their

souls. They promised submission to England; but such was the

love with which France had inspired them, they would not

fight against its standard or renounce its name. Though

conquered they were French neutrals. For nearly forty years

from the peace of Utrecht they had been forgotten or

neglected, and had prospered in their seclusion. No

tax-gatherer counted their folds, no magistrate dwelt in

their hamlets. The parish priests made their records and

regulated their successions. Their little disputes were

settled among themselves, with scarcely an instance of an

appeal to English authority at Annapolis. The pastures were

covered with their herds and flocks; and dikes, raised by

extraordinary efforts of social industry, shut out the

rivers and the tide from alluvial marshes of exuberant

fertility. The meadows, thus reclaimed, were covered by

richest grasses, or fields of wheat, that yielded fifty and

thirty fold at the harvest. Their houses were built in

clusters, neatly constructed and comfortably furnished, and

around them all kinds of domestic fowls abounded. With the

spinning-wheel and the loom, their women made, of flax from

their own fields, of fleeces from their own flock, coarse,

but sufficient clothing. The few foreign luxuries that were

coveted could be obtained from Annapolis or Louisburgh, in

return for furs, or wheat, or cattle. Thus were the Acadians

happy in their neutrality and in the abundance which they

drew from their native land. They formed, as it were, one

great family. Their morals were of unaffected purity. Love

was sanctified and calmed by the universal custom of early

marriages. The neighbors of the community would assist the

new couple to raise their cottage, while the wilderness

offered land. Their numbers increased, and the colony, which

had begun only as the trading station of a company, with a

monopoly of the fur trade, counted, perhaps, sixteen or

seventeen thousand inhabitants."

The transfer of this colony from French to English rule could not fail

to be productive of some untoward results. The native priests feared the

introduction among them of heretical opinions:--the British officers

treated the people with insolent contempt. "Their papers and records"

says our historian, "were taken from them" by their new masters:--

"Was their property demanded for the public service? 'they

were not to be bargained with for the payment.' The order

may still be read on the Council records at Halifax. They

must comply, it was written, without making any terms,

'immediately,' or 'the next courier would bring an order for

military execution upon the delinquents.' And when they

delayed in fetching firewood for their oppressors, it was

told them from the governor, 'If they do not do it in proper

time, the soldiers shall absolutely take their houses for

fuel.' The unoffending sufferers submitted meekly to the

tyranny. Under pretence of fearing that they might rise in

behalf of France, or seek shelter in Canada, or convey

provisions to the French garrisons, they were ordered to

surrender their boats and their firearms; and, conscious of

innocence, they gave up their barges and their muskets,

leaving themselves without the means of flight, and

defenceless. Further orders were afterwards given to the

English officers, if the Acadians behaved amiss to punish

them at discretion; if the troops were annoyed, to inflict

vengeance on the nearest, whether the guilty one or

not,--'taking an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth.'"

There is no reason to believe that these atrocious orders were not

executed in the spirit in which they had been conceived. But worse

remained to come:--

"The Acadians cowered before their masters, hoping

forbearance; willing to take an oath of fealty to England;

in their single-mindedness and sincerity, refusing to pledge

themselves to bear arms against France. The English were

masters of the sea, were undisputed lords of the country,

and could exercise clemency without apprehension. Not a

whisper gave a warning of their purpose till it was ripe for

execution. But it had been 'determined upon' after the

ancient device of Oriental despotism, that the French

inhabitants of Acadia should be carried away into captivity

to other parts of the British dominions. * * France

remembered the descendants of her sons in the hour of their

affliction, and asked that they might have time to remove

from the peninsula with their effects, leaving their lands

to the English; but the answer of the British Minister

claimed them as useful subjects, and refused them the

liberty of transmigration. The inhabitants of Minas and the

adjacent country pleaded with the British officers for the

restitution of their boats and their guns, promising

fidelity, if they could but retain their liberties, and

declaring that not the want of arms, but their conscience,

should engage them not to revolt. 'The memorial,' said

Lawrence in Council, 'is highly arrogant, insidious and

insulting.' The memorialists, at his summons, came

submissively to Halifax. 'You want your canoes for carrying

provisions to the enemy,' said he to them, though he knew no

enemy was left in their vicinity. 'Guns are no part of your

goods,' he continued, 'as by the laws of England all Roman

Catholics are restrained from having arms, and are subject

to penalties if arms are found in their houses. It is not

the language of British subjects to talk of terms with the

Crown, or capitulate about their fidelity and allegiance.

What excuse can you make for your presumption in treating

this government with such indignity as to expound to them

the nature of fidelity? Manifest your obedience by

immediately taking the oaths of allegiance in the common

form before the Council.' The deputies replied that they

would do as the generality of the inhabitants should

determine; and they merely entreated leave to return home

and consult the body of their people. The next day, the

unhappy men, foreseeing the sorrows that menaced them,

offered to swear allegiance unconditionally."

But it was now too late. The savage purpose had been formed. That the

cruelty might have no excuse, it happened that while the scheme was

under discussion letters arrived leaving no doubt that all the shores of

the Bay of Fundy were in the possession of the British. It only remained

to be fixed how the exportation should be effected:--

"To hunt them into the net was impracticable; artifice was

therefore resorted to. By a general proclamation, on one and

the same day, the scarcely conscious victims, 'both old men

and young men, as well as all the lads of ten years of age,'

were peremptorily ordered to assemble at their respective

posts. On the appointed 5th of September, they obeyed. At

Grand Pre, for example, 418 unarmed men came together. They

were marched into the church, and its avenues were closed,

when Winslow, the American commander, placed himself in

their centre, and spoke:--'You are convened together to

manifest to you His Majesty's final resolution to the

French inhabitants of this his province. Your lands, and

tenements, cattle of all kinds, and live stock of all sorts,

are forfeited to the crown, and you yourselves are to be

removed from this his province. I am, through his Majesty's

goodness, directed to allow you liberty to carry off your

money and household goods, as many as you can, without

discommoding the vessels you go in.' And he then declared

them the King's prisoners. Their wives and families shared

their lot; their sons, 527 in number, their daughters, 576;

in the whole, women and babes and old men and children all

included, 1,923 souls. The blow was sudden; they had left

home but for the morning, and they never were to return.

Their cattle were to stay unfed in the stalls, their fires

to die out on their hearths. They had for that first day

even no food for themselves or their children, and were

compelled to beg for bread. The 10th of September was the

day for the embarkation of a part of the exiles. They were

drawn up six deep, and the young men, 161 in number, were

ordered to march first on board the vessel. They could leave

their farms and cottages, the shady rocks on which they had

reclined, their herds and their garners; but nature yearned

within them, and they would not be separated from their

parents. Yet of what avail was the frenzied despair of the

unarmed youth? They had not one weapon; the bayonet drove

them to obey; and they marched slowly and heavily from the

chapel to the shore, between women and children, who

kneeling, prayed for blessings on their heads, they

themselves weeping, and praying, and singing hymns. The

seniors went next; the wives and children must wait till

other transport vessels arrived. The delay had its horrors.

The wretched people left behind were kept together near the

sea, without proper food or raiment, or shelter, till other

ships came to take them away; and December with its

appalling cold had struck the shivering, half-clad,

broken-hearted sufferers before the last of them were

removed. 'The embarkation of the inhabitants goes on but

slowly,' wrote Monckton, from Fort Cumberland, near which he

had burned three hamlets, 'the most part of the wives of the

men we have prisoners are gone off with their children, in

hopes I would not send off their husbands without them.'

Their hope was vain. Near Annapolis, a hundred heads of

families fled to the woods, and a party was detached on the

hunt to bring them in. 'Our soldiers hate them,' wrote an

officer on this occasion, 'and if they can but find a

pretext to kill them, they will.' Did a prisoner seek to

escape, he was shot down by the sentinel. Yet some fled to

Quebec; more than 3,000 had withdrawn to Miramichi and the

region south of the Ristigouche; some found rest on the

banks of the St. John's and its branches; some found a lair

in their native forests; some were charitably sheltered from

the English in the wigwams of the savages. But 7,000 of

these banished people were driven on board ships, and

scattered among the English colonies, from New Hampshire to

Georgia alone; 1,020 to South Carolina alone. They were cast

ashore without resources; hating the poor-house as a shelter

for their offspring, and abhorring the thought of selling

themselves as laborers. Households, too, were separated; the

colonial newspapers contained advertisements of members of

families seeking their companions, of sons anxious to reach

and relieve their parents, of mothers mourning for their

children. The wanderers sighed for their native country; but

to prevent their return, their villages, from Annapolis to

the isthmus, were laid waste. Their old homes were but

ruins. In the district of Minas, for instance, 250 of their

houses, and more than as many barns, were consumed. The live

stock which belonged to them, consisting of great numbers of

horned cattle, hogs, sheep, and horses, were seized as

spoils and disposed of by the English officials. A beautiful

and fertile tract of country was reduced to a solitude.

There was none left round the ashes of the cottages of the

Acadians but the faithful watch-dog, vainly seeking the

hands that fed him. Thickets of forest-trees choked their

orchards; the ocean broke over their neglected dikes, and

desolated their meadows."

Nor were the woes of this ill-treated people ended:

"Relentless misfortune pursued the exiles whereever they

fled. Those sent to Georgia, drawn by a love for the spot

where they were born as strong as that of the captive Jews,

who wept by the side of the rivers of Babylon for their own

temple and land, escaped to sea in boats, and went coasting

from harbor to harbor; but when they had reached New

England, just as they would have set sail for their native

fields, they were stopped by orders from Nova Scotia. Those

who dwelt on the St. John's were torn once more from their

new homes. When Canada surrendered, hatred with its worst

venom pursued the 1,500 who remained south of the

Ristigouche. Once more those who dwelt in Pennsylvania

presented a humble petition to the Earl of Loudoun, then the

British Commander in-Chief in America; and the cold-hearted

peer, offended that the prayer was made in French, seized

their five principal men, who in their own land had been

persons of dignity and substance, and shipped them to

England, with the request that they might be kept from ever

again becoming troublesome by being consigned to service as

common sailors on board ships of war."

And so it was throughout:--"We have been true," said they in one of

their petitions, "to our religion, and true to ourselves; yet nature

appears to consider us only as the objects of public vengeance."--"I

know not," writes Mr. Bancroft, "if the annals of the human race keep

the records of wounds so wantonly inflicted, so bitter and so perennial

as fell upon the French inhabitants of Acadia."

American history has at least one element of peculiar character. The

voyage of the Pilgrim Fathers--the settlement of the Virginia

cavaliers--the foundation of Pennsylvania,--though all events of

profound moral interest, as well as productive of fine pictorial

effects, are not without parallels more or less close in the varied tale

of ancient and modern colonization. But that which is distinctive and

peculiar in the story of American civilization is, its struggle against

the Red Men. Settlers, it is true, have often found themselves in

strange company. In Africa the Greek colonizer elbowed the swarthy

Ethiop. In South America the Spaniard stood beside the Peruvian and the

Carib. Dutchmen have encountered the Malay and the Dyak. For two

centuries English settlers have had to deal with the uncivilized races

of the East and West--from the Bushmen of the Cape to the savages of New

Zealand. But none of these races present the same attractive features as

the brethren of the Iroquois and the Mohicans. About these latter there

are points of romantic and chivalric interest. Though not free from the

vices of the savage, they often exhibit virtues which might shame the

European. There is something of dignity in their aspect and bearing.

They are seldom without a natural and original poetic sense,--and their

language has a wild Ossianic music. They are bold in metaphor and apt in

natural illustration. A group of actors on the scene having

characteristics so peculiar and so attractive as the Red Skin is

invaluable to a historian whose tendency is to see events and note

character under their most pictorial aspects.

The part taken by the Indians in that war between the French and English

in America which ended in the conquest of Quebec and the expulsion of

the Lilies from Canada is narrated at great length by Mr. Bancroft,--and

the atrocious nature of the conflict is well brought out. At the

commencement of the war, we are allowed a glimpse at a curious

war-council:

"'Brothers,' said the Delawares to the Miamis, 'we desire

the English and the Six Nations to put their hands upon your

heads, and keep the French from hurting you. Stand fast in

the chain of friendship with the Government of Virginia.'

'Brothers,' said the Miamis to the English, 'your country is

smooth; your hearts are good; the dwellings of your

governors are like the spring in its bloom.' 'Brothers,'

they added to the Six Nations, holding aloft a calumet

ornamented with feathers, 'the French and their Indians have

struck us, yet we kept this pipe unhurt;' and they gave it

to the Six Nations, in token of friendship with them and

with their allies. A shell and a string of black wampum were

given to signify the unity of heart; and that, though it was

darkness to the westward, yet towards the sun-rising it was

bright and clear. Another string of black wampum announced

that the war-chiefs and braves of the Miamis held the

hatchet in their hand, ready to strike the French. The

widowed Queen of the Piankeshaws sent a belt of black shells

intermixed with white. 'Brothers,' such were her words, 'I

am left a poor, lonely woman, with one son, whom I commend

to the English, the Six Nations, the Shawnees, and the

Delawares, and pray them to take care of him.' The Weas

produced a calumet. 'We have had this feathered pipe,' said

they, 'from the beginning of the world; so that when it

becomes cloudy, we can sweep the clouds away. It is dark in

the west, yet we sweep all clouds away towards the

sun-rising, and leave a clear and serene sky.' Thus, on the

alluvial lands of Western Ohio, began the contest that was

to scatter death broadcast through the world. All the

speeches were delivered again to the Deputies of the

Nations, represented at Logstown, that they might be

correctly repeated to the head Council at Onondaga. An

express messenger from the Miamis hurried across the

mountains, bearing to the shrewd and able Dinwiddie, the

Lieutenant-Governor of Virginia, a belt of wampum, the scalp

of a French Indian, and a feathered pipe, with letters from

the dwellers on the Maumee and on the Wabash. 'Our good

brothers of Virginia,' said the former, 'we must look upon

ourselves as lost, if our brothers, the English, do not

stand by us and give us arms.' 'Eldest brother,' pleaded the

Picts and Windaws, 'this string of wampum assures you, that

the French King's servants have spilled our blood, and eaten

the flesh of three of our men. Look upon us and pity us, for

we are in great distress. Our chiefs have taken up the

hatchet of war. We have killed and eaten ten of the French

and two of their negroes. We are your brothers; and do not

think this is from our mouth only; it is from our very

hearts.' Thus they solicited protection and revenge."

The Duke of Newcastle was unequal to the task of driving the soldiers of

France from Canada or from the valley of the Mississippi. The North and

South were both in the hands of France. The route of the Ohio and the

Mississippi had been discovered by adventurers and missionaries of that

nation; and a few years of quiet possession of the territory would have

allowed French statesmen to consolidate their power in those regions,

and to draw a strong cordon around the entire group of English colonies

on the Atlantic sea-board. But Pitt's genius was brought to bear at a

critical moment on the arrangement of this great question--and he

conceived the project of breaking the Mississippi line and attacking the

enemy in their strongholds on the St. Lawrence. Three expeditions were

fitted out. Amherst and Wolfe were ordered to join the fleet under

Boscawen, destined to act against Louisburgh--Forbes was sent to the

Ohio Valley--Abercrombie was intrusted with the command against Crown

Point and Ticonderoga, though Lord Howe was sent out with the last named

as the real soul of the enterprise. Mr. Bancroft writes:

"None of the officers won favor like Lord Howe and Wolfe.

Both were still young. To high rank and great connections

Howe added manliness, humanity, capacity to discern merit,

and judgment to employ it. As he reached America, he entered

on the simple austerity of forest warfare. James Wolfe, but

thirty-one years old, had already been eighteen years in the

army; was at Dettingen and Fontenoy, and had won laurels at

Laffeldt. Merit made him at two-and-twenty a

lieutenant-colonel, and his active genius improved the

discipline of his battalion. He was at once authoritative

and humane, severe, yet indefatigably kind; modest, but

aspiring and secretly conscious of ability. The brave

soldier dutifully loved and obeyed his widowed mother, and

his gentle nature saw visions of happiness in scenes of

domestic love, even while he kindled at the prospect of

glory, as 'gunpowder at fire.'"

On the 28th of May the expedition reached Halifax.--

"For six days after the British forces on their way from

Halifax to Louisburgh, had entered Chapeau Rouge Bay, the

surf, under a high wind, made the rugged shore inaccessible,

and gave the French time to strengthen and extend their

lines. The sun still dashed heavily, when, before daybreak,

on the 8th of June, the troops, under cover of a random fire

from the frigates, attempted disembarking. Wolfe, the third

brigadier, who led the first division, would not allow a gun

to be fired, cheered on the rowers, and, on coming to shoal

water, jumped into the sea; and, in spite of the surf, which

broke several boats and upset more, in spite of the

well-directed fire of the French, in spite of their

breastwork and rampart of felled trees, whose interwoven

branches made one continued wall of green, the English

landed, took the batteries, drove in the French, and on the

same day invested Louisburgh. At that landing, none was more

gallant than young Richard Montgomery; just one-and-twenty;

Irish by birth; an humble officer in Wolfe's brigade; but

also a servant of humanity, enlisted in its corps of

immortals. The sagacity of Wolfe honored him with

well-deserved praise, and promotion to a lieutenancy. On the

morning of the 12th, an hour before dawn, Wolfe, with light

infantry and Highlanders, took by surprise the light-house

battery on the north-east side of the entrance to the

harbor; the smaller works were successively carried. On the

23d, the English battery began to play on that of the French

on the island near the centre of the mouth of the harbor.

Science, sufficient force, union among the officers,

heroism, pervading mariners and soldiers, carried forward

the siege, during which Barre by his conduct secured the

approbation of Amherst and the confirmed friendship of

Wolfe. Of the French ships in the port, three were burned on

the 21st of July; in the night following the 25th, the boats

of the squadron, with small loss, set fire to the Prudent, a

seventy-four, and carried off the Bienfaisant. Boscawen was

prepared to send six English ships into the harbor. But the

town of Louisburgh was already a heap of ruins; for eight

days, the French officers and men had had no safe place for

rest; of fifty-two cannon opposed to the English batteries

forty were disabled. The French had but five ships of the

line and four frigates. It was time for the Chevalier de

Drucour to capitulate. The garrison became prisoners of war,

and, with the sailors and marines, in all 5,637, were sent

to England. On the 27th of July, the English took possession

of Louisburgh, and, as a consequence, of Cape Breton and

Prince Edward's Island. Thus fell the power of France on our

eastern coast. Halifax being the English naval station,

Louisburgh was deserted. The harbor still offers shelter

from storms; the coast repels the surge: but a few hovels

only mark the spot which so much treasure was lavished to

fortify, so much heroism to conquer. Wolfe, whose heart was

in England, returned home with the love and esteem of the

army. His country was full of exultation; the trophies were

deposited with pomp in the cathedral of St. Paul's; the

churches gave thanks; Boscawen, himself a member of

parliament, was honored by a unanimous tribute from the

House of Commons. New England, too, triumphed; for the

praises awarded to Amherst and Wolfe recalled the heroism of

her own sons."

This success inspired Pitt to still greater efforts. He resolved to

annex the "boundless north," as it was then called, to the British

empire in America; and early in the spring Wolfe again went out,--this

time, to conquer Quebec and find a soldier's grave. Many of his

companions in arms were then and afterwards famous men:--Jervis,

afterwards the renowned Earl St. Vincent, James Cook, the navigator,

George Townshend, Barre, and Colonel Howe.

"On the 26th of June, the whole armament arrived, without

the least accident, off the Isle of Orleans, on which, the

next day, they disembarked. A little south of west the cliff

of Quebec was seen distinctly, seemingly impregnable, rising

precipitously in the midst of one of the grandest scenes in

nature. To protect this guardian citadel of New France,

Montcalm had of regular troops no more than six wasted

battalions; of Indian warriors few appeared, the wary

savages preferring the security of neutrals; the Canadian

militia gave him the superiority in numbers; but he put his

chief confidence in the natural strength of the country.

Above Quebec, the high promontory on which the upper town is

built expands into an elevated plain, having towards the

river the steepest acclivities. For nine miles or more above

the city, as far as Cape Rouge, every landing-place was

intrenched and protected. The river St. Charles, after

meandering through a fertile valley, sweeps the rocky base

of the town, which it covers by expanding into sedgy

marshes. Nine miles below Quebec, the impetuous Montmorenci,

after fretting itself a whirlpool route, and leaping for

miles down the steps of a rocky bed, rushes with velocity

towards the ledge, over which, falling two hundred and fifty

feet, it pours its fleecy cataract into the chasm. As Wolfe

disembarked on the Isle of Orleans, what scene could be more

imposing? On his left lay at anchor the fleet with the

numerous transports; the tents of his army stretched across

the island; the intrenched troops of France, having their

centre at the village of Beanport, extended from the

Montmorenci to the St. Charles; the city of Quebec,

garrisoned by five battalions, bounded the horizon. At

midnight on the 28th, the short darkness was lighted up by a

fleet of fire-ships, that, after a furious storm of wind,

came down with the tide in the proper direction. But the

British sailors grappled with them and towed them free of

the shipping. The river was Wolfe's; the men-of-war made it

so; and, being master of the deep water, he also had the

superiority on the south-shore of the St. Lawrence. In the

night of the 29th, Monckton, with four battalions, having

crossed the south channel, occupied Point Levi; and where

the mighty current, which below the town expands as a bay,

narrows to a deep stream of but a mile in width, batteries

of mortars and cannon were constructed. The citizens of

Quebec, foreseeing the ruin of their houses, volunteered to

pass over the river and destroy the works; but, at the

trial, their courage failed them, and they retreated. The

English, by the discharge of red-hot balls and shells, set

on fire fifty houses in a night, demolished the lower town,

and injured the upper. But the citadel was beyond their

reach, and every avenue from the river to the cliff was too

strongly intrenched for an assault."

The summer was going rapidly, and as yet no real progress had been made.

Wolfe was eager for action,--and he pursued his researches into the

nature of the formidable position with extraordinary eagerness:--

"He saw that the eastern bank of the Montmorenci was higher

than the ground occupied by Montcalm, and, on the 9th of

July, he crossed the north channel and encamped there; but

the armies and their chiefs were still divided by the river

precipitating itself down its rocky way in impassable eddies

and rapids. Three miles in the interior, a ford was found;

but the opposite bank was steep, woody, and well intrenched.

Not a spot on the line of the Montmorenci for miles into the

interior, nor on the St. Lawrence to Quebec, was left

unprotected by the vigilance of the inaccessible Montcalm.

The General proceeded to reconnoitre the shore above the

town. In concert with Saunders, on the 18th of July, he

sailed along the well-defended bank from Montmorenci to the

St. Charles: he passed the deep and spacious harbor, which,

at four hundred miles from the sea, can shelter a hundred

ships of the line; he neared the high cliff of Cape Diamond,

towering like a bastion over the waters, and surmounted by

the banner of the Bourbons; he coasted along the craggy wall

of rock that extends beyond the citadel; he marked the

outline of the precipitous hill that forms the north bank of

the river,--and every where he beheld a natural fastness,

vigilantly defended, intrenchments, cannon, boats, and

floating batteries guarding every access. Had a detachment

landed between the city and Cape Rouge, it would have

encountered the danger of being cut off before it could

receive support. He would have risked a landing at St.

Michael's Cove, three miles above the city, but the enemy

prevented him by planting artillery and a mortar to play

upon the shipping. Meantime, at midnight, on the 28th of

July, the French sent down a raft of five-stages, consisting

of nearly a hundred pieces; but these, like the fire-ships a

month before, did but light up the river, without injuring

the British fleet. Scarcely a day passed but there were

skirmishes of the English with the Indians and Canadians,

who were sure to tread stealthily in the footsteps of every

exploring party. Wolfe returned to Montmorenci. July was

almost gone, and he had made no effective advances. He

resolved on an engagement. The Montmorenci, after falling

over a perpendicular rock, flows for three hundred yards,

amidst clouds of spray and rainbow glories, in a gentle

stream to the St. Lawrence. Near the junction, the river

may, for a few hours of the tide, be passed on foot. It was

planned that two brigades should ford the Montmorenci at the

proper time of the tide, while Monckton's regiments should

cross the St. Lawrence in boats from Point Levi. The signal

was made, but some of the boats grounded on a ledge of rocks

that runs out into the river. While the seamen were getting

them off, and the enemy were firing a vast number of shot

and shells, Wolfe, with some of the navy officers as

companions, selected a landing-place; and his desperate

courage thought it not yet too late to begin the attack.

Thirteen companies of grenadiers, and two hundred of the

second battalion of the Royal Americans, who got first on

shore, not waiting for support, ran hastily towards the

intrenchments, and were repulsed in such disorder that they

could not again come into line; though Monckton's regiment

had arrived, and had formed with the coolness of invincible

valor. But hours hurried by; night was near; the clouds of

midsummer gathered heavily, as if for a storm; the tide

rose; and Wolfe, wiser than Frederic at Colin, ordered a

timely retreat."

In this unsuccessful attempt Wolfe lost 400 men. On the tortures of a

body wasted by fever and a mind preyed on by its own restless energy, we

will not dwell. Wolfe reckoned on assistance from the corps of

Amherst,--but this did not arrive. At last he perceived that his fate

rested in his own hands alone,--and he conceived the daring plan of

attack which has given to his name the soldier's immortality. We extract

Mr. Bancroft's account of the brilliant attack which cost our young hero

his life and the French their dominions in Northern America:--

"Every officer knew his appointed duty, when, at one o'clock

in the morning of the 13th September, Wolfe, with Monckton

and Murray, and about half the forces, set off in boats, and

without sail or oars, glided down with the tide. In

three-quarters of an hour the ships followed, and, though

the night had become dark, aided by the rapid current, they

reached the cove just in time to cover the landing. Wolfe

and the troops with him leaped on shore; the light infantry,

who found themselves borne by the current a little below the

intrenched path, clambered up the steep hill, staying

themselves by the roots and boughs of the maple and spruce

and ash trees that covered the precipitous declivity, and,

after a little firing, dispersed the picket which guarded

the height. The rest ascended safely by the pathway. A

battery of four guns on the left was abandoned to Colonel

Howe. When Townshend's division disembarked, the English had

already gained one of the roads to Quebec, and, advancing in

front of the forest, Wolfe stood at daybreak with big

invincible battalions on the plains of Abraham, the

battle-field of empire. 'It can be but a small party come to

burn a few houses and retire,' said Montcalm, in amazement,

as the news reached him in his intrenchments the other side

of the St. Charles; but, obtaining better

information,--'Then,' he cried, 'they have at last got to

the weak side of this miserable garrison; we must give

battle and crush them before mid-day.' And before ten, the

two armies, equal in numbers, each being composed of less

than five thousand men, were ranged in presence of one

another for battle. The English, not easily accessible from

intervening shallow ravines, and rail fences, were all

regulars, perfect in discipline, terrible in their fearless

enthusiasm, thrilling with pride at their morning's success,

commanded by a man whom they obeyed with confidence and

love. The doomed and devoted Montcalm had what Wolfe had

called but 'five weak French battalions,' of less than two

thousand men, 'mingled with disorderly peasantry,' formed on

ground which commanded the position of the English. The

French had three little pieces of artillery, the English one

or two. The two armies cannonaded each other for nearly an

hour; when Montcalm, having summoned Bougainville to his

aid, and despatched messenger after messenger for De

Vaudreuil, who had fifteen hundred men at the camp, to come

up, before he should be driven from the ground, endeavored

to flank the British and crowd them down the high bank of

the river. Wolfe counteracted the movement by detaching

Townshend with Amherst's regiment, and afterwards a part of

the Royal Americans, who formed on the left with a double

front. Waiting no longer for more troops, Montcalm led the

French army impetuously to the attack. The ill-disciplined

companies broke by their precipitation and the unevenness of

the ground; and fired by platoons, without unity. The

English, especially the forty-third and forty-seventh, where

Monckton stood, received the shock with calmness; and after

having, at Wolfe's command, reserved their fire till their

enemy was within forty yards, their line began a regular,

rapid, and exact discharge of musketry. Montcalm was present

every where, braving danger, wounded, but cheering by his

example. The second in command, De Sennezergues, an

associate in glory at Ticonderoga, was killed. The brave but

untried Canadians, flinching from a hot fire in the open

field, began to waver; and, so soon as Wolfe, placing

himself at the head of the twenty-eighth and the Louisburgh

grenadiers, charged with bayonets, they every where gave

way. Of the English officers, Carleton was wounded; Barre,

who fought near Wolfe, received in the head a ball which

destroyed the power of vision of one eye, and ultimately

made him blind. Wolfe, also, as he led the charge, was

wounded in the wrist, but still pressing forward, he

received a second ball; and, having decided the day, was

struck a third time, and mortally, in the breast. 'Support

me,' he cried to an officer near him: 'let not my brave

fellows see me drop.' He was carried to the rear, and they

brought him water to quench his thirst. 'They run, they

run,' spoke the officer on whom he leaned. 'Who run?' asked

Wolfe, as his life was fast ebbing. 'The French,' replied

the officer, 'give way every where.' 'What,' cried the

expiring hero, 'do they run already? Go, one of you, to

Colonel Burton; bid him march Webb's regiment with all speed

to Charles River to cut off the fugitives.' Four days

before, he had looked forward to early death with dismay.

'Now, God be praised, I die happy.' These were his words as

his spirit escaped in the blaze of his glory. Night,

silence, the rushing tide, veteran discipline, the sure

inspiration of genius had been his allies; his battle-field,

high over the ocean-river, was the grandest theatre on earth

for illustrious deeds; his victory, one of the most

momentous in the annals of mankind, gave to the English

tongue and the institutions of the Germanic race the

unexplored and seemingly infinite West and North. He crowded

into a few hours actions that would have given lustre to

length of life; and filling his day with greatness,

completed it before its noon."

In that terrible action fell also "the hope of New France." In

attempting to rally a body of fugitive Canadians in a copse near St.

John's Gate, Montcalm was mortally wounded.

We have quoted enough from this volume to show how varied and stirring

are the subjects with which Mr. Bancroft here deals.

FOOTNOTES:

[5] _History of the American Revolution._ By George Bancroft. Vol. I.

Boston, Little & Brown, 1852.

From the London Literary Gazette

LIFE IN CANADA.

BY MRS. MOODIE.[6]

If there be one of life's affairs in which woman has a peculiar right to

have her wishes considered and her veto respected, it is that of

emigration. For, in the arduous task of establishing a new home in a

half-settled country, let man do what he will to alleviate, on her fall

the burthen and heat of the day. Hers are the menial toils, the frequent

anxieties, the lingering home-sickness, the craving after dear friends'

faces and a beloved native land. Hers, too, the self-imposed duty and

unselfish effort to hide regret under cheerful smiles, when the weary

brother or husband returns at evening from toil in field and forest.

Blessed and beautiful are the smiles of the sad-hearted, worn to wile

away another's cares!

Love in a cottage has long been jeered at, and depicted as flying out of

the window. It seems miraculous to behold the capricious little deity

steadfastly braving, for many a long year, the chilly atmosphere of a

log-hut in an American forest. In the year 1832, Mrs. Moodie (here

better remembered as Miss Susanna Strickland, sister of the well-known

historian of the English and Scottish Queens) accompanied her husband, a

half-pay subaltern, to the backwoods of Canada. Many were her

misgivings, and they did not prove unfounded. Long and cruel was the

probation she underwent, before finding comparative comfort and

prosperity in the rugged land where at first she found so much to

embitter her existence. Nobly did she bear up under countless

difficulties and sufferings, supported by an energy rare in woman, and

by her devoted attachment to the husband of her choice. For some years

her troubles were not occasional, but continual and increasing. Her

first installation in a forest home could hardly have been more

discouraging and melancholy than it was:

"The place we first occupied was purchased of Mr. C----, a

merchant, who took it in payment of sundry large debts,

which the owner, a New England loyalist, had been unable to

settle. Old Joe H--, the present occupant, had promised to

quit it with his family at the commencement of sleighing;

and as the bargain was concluded in the month of September,

and we were anxious to plough for fall wheat, it was

necessary to be upon the spot. No house was to be found in

the immediate neighborhood save a small dilapidated log

tenement, on an adjoining farm (which was scarcely reclaimed

from the bush), that had been some months without an owner.

The merchant assured us that this could be made very

comfortable until such time as it suited H--to remove."

With singular want of caution, Mr. and Mrs. Moodie neglected to visit

this "log tenement" before signing an agreement to rent it. On a rainy

September day they proceed to take possession:

"The carriage turned into a narrow, steep path, overhung

with lofty woods, and after laboring up it with considerable

difficulty, and at the risk of breaking our necks, it

brought us at length to a rocky upland clearing, partially

covered with a second growth of timber, and surrounded on

all sides by the dark forest. 'I guess,' quoth our Yankee

driver, 'that at the bottom of this 'ere swell, you'll find

yourself _to hum_;' and plunging into a short path cut

through the wood, he pointed to a miserable hut, at the

bottom of a steep descent, and cracking his whip, exclaimed,

'It's a smart location that. I wish you Britishers may enjoy

it.' I gazed upon the place in perfect dismay, for I had

never seen such a shed called a house before. 'You must be

mistaken; that is not a house, but a cattle-shed, or

pig-sty.' The man turned his knowing keen eye upon me, and

smiled, half humorously, half maliciously, as he said, 'You

were raised in the old country, I guess; you have much to

learn, and more perhaps than you'll like to know, before the

winter is over.'"

The prophet of evil spoke truly. It was a winter of painful instruction

for the inexperienced young woman, and her not very prudent husband. We

might fill columns with a bare list of their vexations and disasters.

Amongst the former, not the least arose from the borrowing propensities

of their neighbors. They had 'located' in a bad neighborhood, in the

vicinity of a number of low Yankee squatters, "ignorant as savages,

without their courtesy and kindness." These people walked

unceremoniously at all hours into their wretched dwelling, to criticise

their proceedings, make impertinent remarks, and to borrow--or rather to

beg or steal, for what they borrowed they rarely returned. The most

extraordinary loans were daily solicited or demanded; and Mrs. Moodie,

strange and timid in her new home, and amongst, these

semi-barbarians--her husband, too, being much away at the farm--for some

time dared not refuse to acquiesce in their impudent extortions. Here is

a specimen of the style of these miscalled 'borrowings.' On the first

day of their arrival, whilst they were yet toiling to exclude wind and

rain from the crazy hovel, which their baggage and goods filled nearly

to the roof, a young Yankee 'lady' squeezed herself into the crowded

room:

"Imagine a girl of seventeen or eighteen years of age, with

sharp, knowing-looking features, a forward impudent carnage,

and a pert flippant voice, standing upon one of the trunks,

and surveying all our proceedings in the most impertinent

manner. The creature was dressed in a ragged, dirty, purple

stuff gown, cut very low in the neck, with an old red cotton

handkerchief tied over her head; her uncombed, tangled locks

falling over her thin, inquisitive face in a state of

perfect nature. Her legs and feet were bare, and in her

coarse, dirty, red hands she swung to and fro an empty glass

decanter."

The mission of this squalid nymph was not to borrow but to lend. She

"guessed the strangers were fixin' there," and that they'd want a glass

decanter to hold their whisky, so she had brought one over. "But

mind--don't break it," said she; "'tis the only one we have to hum, and

father says it's so mean to drink out of green glass"--a sentiment

worthy of a colonel of hussars. Although quite pleased by such

disinterested kindness and attention, Mrs. Moodie declined the decanter,

on the double ground of having some of her own, and of not drinking

whisky. The refusal was unavailing. The lady in ragged purple set down

the bottle on a trunk, as firmly as if she meant to plant it there, and

took herself off. The next morning cleared up the mystery of her

perseverance. "Have you done with that 'ere decanter I brought across

yesterday?" said the 'cute damsel, presenting herself before Mrs. Moodie

with her bare red knees peeping through her ragged petticoats, and with

face and hands innocent of soap. The English lady returned the bottle,

with the remark that she had never needed it.

"'I guess you won't return it empty,' quoth the obliging

neighbor; 'that would be mean, father says. He wants it

filled with whisky.'"

The hearty laugh which this solution of the riddle provoked from the

inmates of the log-house offended the female Yankee, who tossed the

decanter from hand to hand and glared savagely about her. But the

ridicule was insufficient to deter her from the whisky hunt. When

assured there was none in the place, she demanded rum, and pointed to a

keg, in which she said she smelt it. Her keen olfactories had not

deceived her. The rum, she was told, was for the workmen:

"'I calculate,' was the reply, 'when you've been here a few

months, you'll be too knowing to give rum to helps. But

old-country folks are all fools, and that's the reason they

get so easily sucked in, and be so soon wound up. Cum, fill

the bottle, and don't be stingy. In this country we all live

by borrowing. If you want any thing, why, just send and

borrow from us.'"

When the decanter was filled and delivered to this saucy mendicant, Mrs.

Moodie ventured to petition for a little milk for her infant, but

Impudence in purple laughed in her face, and named an exorbitant price

at which she would _sell_ it her, for cash on delivery. It seems

incredible that, after this ingratitude, Mrs. Moodie continued her

'lendings' to the family of which her new acquaintance was a

distinguished ornament.

"The very day our new plough came home, the father of this

bright damsel, who went by the familiar name of _Old Satan_,

came over to borrow it (though we afterwards found out that

he had a good one of his own). The land had never been

broken up, and was full of rocks and stumps, and he was

anxious to save his own from injury; the consequence was,

that the borrowed implement came home unfit for use, just at

the very time we wanted to plough for fall wheat. The same

happened to a spade and trowel, bought in order to plaster

the house. Satan asked the loan of them for _one_ hour, for

the same purpose, and we never saw them again."

The other neighbors were no better. One Yankee dame used to send over

her son, a hopeful youth, Philander by name, almost every morning, to

borrow the bake-kettle, in which hot cakes were cooked for breakfast.

One day, when Mrs. Moodie was later than usual in rising, she heard from

her bedroom the kitchen latch lifted. It was Philander, come for the

kettle.

"_I (through the partition):_ 'You can't have it this

morning. We cannot get our breakfast without it,'

_Philander:_ 'No more can the old woman to hum,' and,

snatching up the kettle, which had been left to warm on the

hearth, he rushed out of the house, singing at the top of

his voice, 'Hurrah for the Yankee boys!' When James (the

servant) came home for his breakfast, I sent him across to

demand the kettle, and the dame very coolly told him, that

when she had done with it I might have it; but she defied

him to take it out of her house with her bread in it."

Since the request of the drover who begged his comrade to lend him a

bark of his dog, we have not heard of queerer loans than some of those

solicited of Mrs. Moodie:--

"Another American squatter was always sending over to borrow

a small-tooth comb, which she called a _vermin destroyer_;

and once the same person asked the loan of a towel, as a

friend had come from the States to visit her, and the only

one she had, had been made into a best 'pinny' for the

child: she likewise begged a sight in the looking-glass, as

she wanted to try on a new cap, to see if it were fixed to

her mind. This woman must have been a mirror of neatness

when compared with her dirty neighbors. One night I was

roused up from my bed for the loan of a pair of

'steelyards.' For what purpose, think you, gentle reader? To

weigh a new-born infant. The process was performed by tying

the poor squalling thing up in a small shawl, and suspending

it to one of the hooks. The child was a fine boy, and

weighed ten pounds, greatly to the delight of the Yankee

father. One of the drollest instances of borrowing I have

ever heard of was told me by a friend. A maid-servant asked

her mistress to go out on a particular afternoon, as she was

going to have a party of her friends, and _wanted the loan

of the drawing-room_."

Traits such as these exhibit, more vividly than volumes of description,

the sort of savages amongst whom poor Mrs. Moodie's lot was cast. They

had all the worst qualities of Yankee and Indian--the good ones of

neither. They had neither manners, heart, nor honesty. The basest

selfishness, cunning, and malignity were their prominent

characteristics. A less patient and good-tempered person than Mrs.

Moodie would, however, have had little difficulty in getting rid of the

troublesome and intrusive borrowers. They could not bear a sharp rebuke,

and, more than once, a happy and pointed retort rid her, for weeks, or

even for ever, of the pestilent presence of one or other of them. An

English farmer, settled near at hand, to whom she mentioned her

annoyances, laughed--as well he might--at her easy-going toleration.

"Ask them sharply what they want," he said, "and, failing a satisfactory

answer, bid them leave the house. Or--a better way still--buy some small

article of them, and bid them bring the change." Mrs. Moodie tried the

latter plan, and with no slight success.

"That very afternoon, Miss Satan brought me a plate of

butter for sale. The price was three and nine pence; twice

the sum, by-the-bye, that it was worth. 'I have no

change,'--giving her a dollar--'but you can bring it to me

to-morrow.' Oh! blessed experiment! for the value of one

quarter dollar I got rid of this dishonest girl for ever.

Rather than pay me, she never entered the house again."

The strange names of some of the farmers and squatters in Mrs. Moodie's

neighborhood exceed belief. Amongst the substantial yeomen thereabouts

were Solomon Sly, Reynard Fox, and Hiram Dolittle. Ammon and Ichabod

were two hopeful Canadian youths, the former of whom--a child of tender

years--was in the habit of hideously swearing at his father, and then

scampering across the meadow, and defying the pursuit of his pursy

progenitor. This is another family of which Mrs. Moodie gives amusing

glimpses, in a style sufficiently masculine, but therefore all the

better adapted to the subject:--

"The conversation was interrupted by a queer-looking urchin

of five years old, dressed in a long-tailed coat and

trowsers, popping his black shock head in at the door and

calling out, 'Uncle Joe! You're wanted to hum.' 'Is that

your nephew?' 'No! I guess it's my woman's eldest son,' said

uncle Joe, rising; 'but they call me Uncle Joe. 'Tis a spry

chap that--as cunning as a fox. I tell you what it is--he

will make a smart man. Go home, Ammon, and tell your ma that

I am coming.' 'I won't,' said the boy; 'you may go hum and

tell her yourself. She has wanted wood cut this hour, and

you'll catch it!' Away ran the dutiful son, but not before

he had applied his forefinger significantly to the side of

his nose, and, with a knowing wink, pointed in the direction

of hum. Uncle Joe obeyed the signal, drily remarking that he

could not leave the barn door without the old hen clucking

him back. At this period we were still living in Old Satan's

log house, and anxiously looking out for the first snow to

put us in possession of the good substantial log dwelling

occupied by Uncle Joe and his family, which consisted of a

brown brood of seven girls and this highly-prized boy."

The names of the squatter ladies were of a far superior description to

those to which their brothers answered. Looking down upon the Old

Testament, their godfathers had resorted for suggestions to the Italian

Opera, the heathen mythology, and the Minerva press. She of the purple

garment was called Emily. This was quiet enough. But her associates were

Cinderellas, Minervas, and Almerias; and Amanda was the baptismal

appellation of one of Ammon's sisters.

Old Joe, it will be remembered, had agreed to quit, when winter set in,

the house belonging to the farm which Mr. Moodie had purchased. But even

in civilized and lawyer-ridden England possession is held to be nine

points of the law, and in Canada the other tenth is thrown in. Old Joe's

mother, an abominable Yankee Hecate, grinned like a whole bag-full of

monkeys when informed that her son was expected to dis-locate as soon as

sleighing began.

"'Joe,' she guessed, 'would take his own time. The house was

not built which was to receive him; and he was not the man

to turn his back upon a warm hearth to camp in the

wilderness. It was neither the first snow nor the last frost

that would turn Joe out of his comfortable home.'"

Mrs. Hecate spoke a true word. Frost came, sledges ran, thaw began--not

an inch budged Joe. The sun gained power, a soft south wind fanned the

frozen earth, the snow disappeared--still the reckless, dishonest scamp

made no sign of removing, and replied with abuse to the remonstrances of

those to whom his dwelling belonged. In the States, and with a brother

Yankee, his obstinacy might have led to revolver and rifle work. The

English emigrants patiently waited, to their own great inconvenience.

Joe reckoned he shouldn't move till his 'missus' was confined--an

interesting event which was expected to come off in May. About the

middle of that month the Joe family was increased by a sturdy boy,

whereupon its chief declared his intention of turning out in a

fortnight, if all went well. Mrs. Moodie did not believe him--he had

lied so often before; but he was determined to take her in at last, as

he had done at first, for this time he was as good as his word. On the

last day of May they went, bag and baggage, and Mrs. Moodie sent over

her Scotch maid-servant and Irish serving-man to clear out the dwelling,

which she justly expected would be in bad enough condition. But her

expectations were far exceeded by the reality. The malignity of these

people, who from her had received nothing but kindness and good offices,

was degrading to human nature. Presently the Irishman returned, panting

with indignation:

"'The house,' he said, 'was more filthy than a pig-sty.' But

that was not the worst of it; Uncle Joe, before he went, had

undermined the brick chimney, and let all the water into the

house. 'Oh! but if he comes here agin,' he continued,

grinding his teeth and doubling his fist, 'I'll thrash him

for it. And thin, Ma'arm, he has girdled round all the best

graft apple-trees, the murtherin' owld villain, as if it

would spile his digestion our ating them.'

"John and Bell scrubbed at the house all day, and in the

evening they carried over the furniture, and I went to

inspect our new dwelling. It looked beautifully clean and

neat. Bell had whitewashed all the black, smoky walls, and

boarded ceilings, and scrubbed the dirty window-frames, and

polished the fly-spotted panes of glass, until they actually

admitted a glimpse of the clear air and the blue sky.

Snow-white-fringed curtains, and a bed with furniture to

correspond, a carpeted floor, and a large pot of green

boughs on the hearthstone, gave an air of comfort and

cleanliness to a room which, only a few hours before, had

been a loathsome den of filth and impurity. This change

would have been very gratifying, had not a strong,

disagreeable odor almost deprived me of my breath as I

entered the room. It was unlike any thing I had ever smelt

before, and turned me so sick and faint, that I had to cling

to the door-post for support.

"'Where does this dreadful smell come from?'

"'The guidness knows, ma'am; John and I have searched the

house from the loft to the cellar, but we canna find out the

cause of the stink.'

"'It must be in the room, Bell, and it is impossible to

remain here, or to live in the house, until it is removed.'

"Glancing my eyes all round the place, I spied what seemed

to me a little cupboard, over the mantel-shelf, and I told

John to see if I was right. The lad mounted upon a chair,

and pulled open a small door, but almost fell to the ground

with the dreadful stench which seemed to rush from the

closet.

"'What is it, John?' I cried from the open door.

"'A skunk! ma'arm, a skunk! Sure, I thought the devil had

scorched his tail, and left the grizzled hair behind him.

What a strong perfume it has!' he continued, holding up the

beautiful but odious little creature by the tail.

"'By dad! I know all about it now. I saw Ned Layton, only

two days ago, crossing the field with Uncle Joe, with his

gun on his shoulder, and this wee bit baste in his hand.

They were both laughing like sixty. 'Well, if this does not

stink the Scotchman out of the house,' said Joe, 'I'll be

content to be tarred and feathered;' and thin they both

laughed until they stopped to draw breath.'

"I could hardly help laughing myself; but I begged Monaghan

to convey the horrid creature away, and putting some salt

and sulphur into a tin plate, and setting fire to it, I

placed it on the floor in the middle of the room, and closed

all the doors for an hour, which greatly assisted in

purifying the house from the skunkification. Bell then

washed out the closet with strong ley, and in a short time

no vestige remained of the malicious trick Uncle Joe had

played off upon us."

The smell of skunk and Yankee eradicated, there still was much to be

done before the house could be deemed habitable. It swarmed with mice,

which all the night long performed fantastical dances over the faces and

pillows of the new comers. The old logs which composed the walls of the

dwelling were alive with bugs and large black ants, and the fleas upon

the floor were as thick as sand-grains in the desert. With the warm

weather, then just setting in, came legions of mosquitoes, that rose in

clouds from the numerous little streams intersecting the valley. But in

spite of all these discomforts, summer was felt to be a blessing, and

"roughing it" in the woods was far less painful than in the season of

snow, and frost, and storm.

"The banks of the little streams abounded with wild

strawberries, which, although small, were of a delicious

flavor. Thither Bell and I, and the baby, daily repaired to

gather the bright red berries of nature's own providing.

Katie, young as she was, was very expert at helping herself,

and we used to seat her in the middle of a fine bed, whilst

we gathered farther on. Hearing her talking very lovingly to

something in the grass, which she tried to clutch between

her white hands, calling it 'pitty, pitty,' I ran to the

spot and found it was a large garter-snake that she was so

affectionately courting to her embrace. Not then aware that

this formidable looking reptile was perfectly harmless, I

snatched the child up in my arms, and ran with her home,

never stopping until I reached the house and saw her safely

seated in her cradle."

Sixteen years elapsed after the departure of Joe and his brood from her

neighborhood before Mrs. Moodie heard any thing of their fate. A winter

or two ago, tidings of them reached her through one who had lived near

them. Hecate, almost a centenarian, occupied a corner of her son's barn.

She could not dwell in harmony under the same roof with her

daughter-in-law. The lady in purple and her sisters were married and

scattered abroad. Joe himself, who could neither read nor write, had

turned itinerant preacher. No account was given of the hopeful Ammon.

Mrs. Moodie's work, unaffectedly and naturally written, though a little

coarse, will delight ladies, please men, and even amuse children. On our

readers' account we regret our inability to make further extracts from

its amusing pages. The book is one of great originality and interest.

FOOTNOTES:

[6] _Roughing it in the Bush; or, Life in Canada._ 2 vols. Bentley.

From the London Literary Gazette.

MR. SQUIER ON NICARAGUA.[7]

Many causes are combining to give great importance to the States of

Central America. Their own fertility and natural advantages, the

commerce of the Pacific, and the gold of California, unite to attract

the earnest attention of enterprising men and politicians towards them.

At the present moment, the appearance of this full and able account of

Nicaragua is peculiarly well-timed. The writer of it describes himself

as "late _charge d'affaires_ of the United States to the Republics of

Central America." His official position has evidently enabled him to get

at much information that would otherwise have been inaccessible. His

name is well and favorably known to ethnologists and antiquarians by his

researches into the history of the aboriginal monuments of the United

States, and by his very curious, though somewhat fanciful, essay on "The

Serpent Symbol, and the Worship of the Reciprocal Principles of Nature

in America." The bias and extent of his studies make him a very

competent person to investigate the antiquities of Nicaragua. The

chapters devoted to this subject in the work before us are full of

interest, and highly to be valued for the abundance of fresh

observations they contain. Like many American archaeologists and

historians, Mr. Squier is inclined to over-estimate the peculiarities

and antiquity of the aborigines of the New World. If we understand

rightly, he claims for them an independent origin. His ethnology is of

the romantic school, and rather loose. His imagination gets the better

of his reasoning, and his "organ of wonder," to speak in the manner of

phrenologists, is over-developed. His habits of mind and training do not

seem to be such as to qualify him for strict scientific research. He is

more of the _litterateur_ than the philosopher. His writings are, in

consequence, very amusing, but require to be dealt with cautiously. The

facts must be winnowed from the fancies with which they are mingled, if

we wish to use them for scientific purposes.

Imaginative men are usually warm lovers and fierce haters. Our American

envoy's appreciation of female charms is so intense, that he cannot pass

a pretty woman without inscribing a memorandum respecting her in his

note-book, afterwards to be printed more at length with additional

expressions of admiration. A pair of black eyes cannot sparkle behind a

lattice without being duly recorded. His affection for the ladies is

only equalled by his dislike of the "Britishers." The handsomest girl

and the ugliest idol could scarcely distract his thought from the vices

and crimes of England and the English. If he is to be trusted, the whole

population of Central America regards every Englishman as a bitter

enemy. He paints us in the blackest hues, and prophesies the fall of

England with undisguised delight. Bluster about Britain is the prominent

fault of the book, and one for which the writer will, when he knows more

about us, be ashamed of himself. Every day it is becoming more and more

the interest of Englishmen and Americans to pull together. Consanguinity

and the love of constitutional liberty are strong ties. They may be

forgotten for a time, but in the end must work uppermost. Recent events

have done much to remind us of our near relationship with our

transatlantic cousins, and them of the Anglo-Saxon blood to which they

owe their pre-eminence among the nations of the New World. The grasping

and interfering qualities that bring down upon us the unmitigated

censures of Mr. Squier are quite as prominently manifested in the doings

of his countrymen; and whilst in one chapter he censures our meddlings

with, and claims upon, the Mosquito shore, in another he anticipates

something very like the annexation of all Central America to the United

States.

The Mosquito country, about which we have seen of late so many very

unsatisfactory paragraphs in our newspapers, is a thinly populated and

most unhealthy tract on the Atlantic sea-board of Central America. It is

inhabited by a mixed breed of Indians and Negroes, supposed to be ruled

by a semi-civilized individual, who rejoices in the entomological title

of King of the Mosquitoes, one by no means inappropriate, considering

the amount of small annoyance we have endured through disputes about his

territory. He is supposed to be under British protection; it is

difficult to understand exactly why. The main purpose we have in view

seems to be the securing a proper supply of the peculiar hard woods of

this region. Britons at home generally make peace over their mahogany;

abroad they seem to pick quarrels over it.

Central America includes an era of 150,000 square miles. Under Spanish

dominion it was divided into the provinces of Guatemala, Honduras, San

Salvador, Nicaragua, and Costa Rica. These became independent states in

1821, and subsequently united to form the "Republic of Central America."

They separated again, in 1839, into so many distinct republics.

Nicaragua, Honduras, and San Salvador have recently confederated. The

entire region of Central America presents very marked and important

physical features. These are the great plain, six thousand feet above

the sea, upon which stands the city of Guatemala; the high plain forming

the centre of Honduras and part of Nicaragua; and the elevated country

of Costa Rica. Between the two latter lies the basin of the Nicaraguan

Lakes, with broad and undulating verdant slopes broken by steep volcanic

cones, and a few ranges of hills along the shores of the Pacific,

intermingled with undulating plains. Of the two great lakes, the lesser,

Managua, is one hundred and fifty-six feet, and the larger, Nicaragua,

one hundred and twenty-eight feet above the Pacific ocean. The former is

fifty or sixty miles in length by thirty-five wide, the latter above a

hundred miles long by fifty wide. On or near their western borders are

the chief cities of the country. Enormous isolated volcanic cones rise

to the height of from 4000 to 7000 feet in their neighborhood or on the

islands that stud them. Numerous remains of antiquity, ruins of temples,

and deserted monolithic idols, give interest to their precincts, whilst

the scenery is described as being surpassingly grand and beautiful. The

sole outlet is the river San Juan, a magnificent stream flowing from the

southeastern extremity of Lake Nicaragua, for a length of about ninety

miles, into the Atlantic. The climate is generally healthy, more

especially towards the Pacific side. Nicaragua is inhabited by a

population of about 260,000, one-half of which, or more, is composed of

mixed breeds, Indians, in great part civilized, coming next in number,

then whites, of whom there are about 25,000, and, lastly, some 15,000

Negroes. They live chiefly in towns, and cultivate the soil, which is

very productive, and capable of supporting a much larger population. The

natural resources of Nicaragua appear to be very great. Sugar, cotton,

coffee, indigo, tobacco, rice, and maize, are the chief productions.

There is, besides, great mineral wealth. In ancient times the aborigines

appear to have occupied considerable cities, and to have attained a

civilization comparable with that of the Mexicans. Indeed, Mr. Squier

has proved, by philological and other evidence, that a Mexican colony

did exist in Nicaragua at the period of the discovery of the country in

the fifteenth century. This had been surmised before, but not clearly

made out.

Much interest attaches to the population of Nicaragua, on account of the

large proportion of families of Indian blood, pure and mixed, of whom it

is made up. The qualities which enabled the ancient Indian people of

Mexico, Central America, and Peru, to become civilized nations after a

peculiar fashion, are not extinct, and seem to be retained and

re-developed in proportion to the prevalence of Indian over Spanish

blood. The Indians of Nicaragua are remarkable for industry and

docility; they are unobtrusive, hospitable, and brave, although,

fortunately for themselves, not warlike. They make good soldiers, yet

have no morbid taste for the military profession. The men are

agriculturists; the women occupy themselves with the weaving of cotton,

and make fabrics of good quality and tasteful design. It is interesting

to find the Tyrian dye still employed in their manufactures. They

procure it from a species of _Murex_ inhabiting the shores of the

Pacific. They take the cotton thread to the sea-side, where, having

gathered together a sufficient quantity of shell-fish, they patiently

squeeze over the cotton the coloring fluid, at first pellucid and

colorless, from the animals, one by one. At first the thread is pale

blue, but on exposure to the atmosphere becomes of the desired purple.

This color is so prized that purple thread dyed by cheaper and speedier

methods, imported from Europe, cannot supplant the native product. With

mingled humanity and thrift they replace the whelks in their native

element, after these shell-fish have yielded up the precious liquor for

which they were originally gathered. The Indian population also

exclusively manufacture variegated mats and hammocks from the Pita, a

species of Agave, and are as skilful as their ancient ancestors in the

making of pottery. They do not use the potter's wheel. Politically they

enjoy equal privileges with the whites, and all positions in church and

state are open to them. Among them are men of decided talent. Physically

they are a smaller and paler race than the Indians of the United States,

but are well developed and muscular. Their women are not unfrequently

pretty, and when young are often very finely formed.

Happily in Nicaragua no distinctions of caste are recognized, or, at any

rate, they have no influence. Such of the people as claim to be of pure

Spanish blood are, in most instances, evidently partly of Indian

descent. The Sambos, or offspring of Indian and Negro parents, are a

fine race of people, taller and stronger than the Indians.

Mr. Squier's admiration for the gentler (in Nicaragua we can scarcely

say the _fair_) sex, has led him to picture very vividly the charms and

appearance of the ladies he encountered during his travels. The

following is a precise and tempting description:

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

_embonpoint_ which characterizes the sex under the tropics.

Their dress, except in a few instances where the stiff

costume of our own country had been adopted, was exceedingly

loose and flowing, leaving the neck and arms exposed. The

entire dress was often pure white, but generally the skirt,

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

_guipil_ (_anglice_, vandyke) was white, heavily trimmed

with lace. Satin slippers, a red or purple sash wound

loosely round the waist, and a rosary sustaining a little

golden cross, with a narrow golden band or a string of

pearls extending around the forehead and binding the hair,

which often fell in luxuriant waves upon their shoulders,

completed a costume as novel as it was graceful and

picturesque. To all this, add the superior attractions of an

oval face, regular features, large and lustrous black eyes,

small mouth, pearly white teeth, and tiny hands and feet,

and withal a low but clear voice, and the reader has a

picture of a Central American lady of pure stock. Very many

of the women have, however, an infusion of other families

and races, from the Saracen to the Indian and the Negro, in

every degree of intermixture. And as tastes differ, so many

opinions as to whether the tinge of brown, through which the

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

the girl who may trace her lineage to the caziques upon one

side, and the haughty grandees of Andalusia and Seville on

the other, superadded, as it usually is, to a greater

lightness of figure and animation of face,--whether this is

not a more real beauty than that of the fair and more

languid senora, whose white and almost transparent skin

bespeaks a purer ancestry. Nor is the Indian girl, with her

full, little figure, long, glossy hair, quick and

mischievous eyes, who walks erect as a grenadier beneath her

heavy water-jar, and salutes you in a musical, impudent

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

in the novel contrasts which the 'bello sexo' affords in

this glorious land of the sun."

The Nicaraguan ladies occupy themselves with smoking and displaying

little feet in satin slippers when daily they go to church and back. In

the early evening they occasionally pay visits, and if a number of both

sexes happen to assemble at the same house a dance is improvised, though

regular parties or balls are rare and ceremonial.

At festival seasons the Nicaraguans have some curious customs,

apparently derived from their ancient heathen worship.

In some of the Nicaraguan towns, especially in Leon, the pernicious

practice of burying the dead within the walls of city churches is

persisted in, even as in London, and, just as with us, against the

opposition of all sensible persons, including the government itself.

Fees to the church and attendant officials are at the root of the evil,

and give it a vitality that defies all attempts at eradication. The

priests of Leon have evaded all edicts about this nuisance, and have

improved upon the practice of our metropolitan parishes; for, not

content with the revenues they derive from funerals, they charge

according to the length of time (from ten to twenty-five years) the dead

are to be permitted by them to rest in their graves. When the purchased

time is up, the bones and the earth derived from the decomposed corpses

are removed and sold to the manufacturers of nitre! The least warlike of

citizens may thus in the end become a defender of his country, when

converted into a constituent of gunpowder. The most quiet and

unambitious of mortals may complete his career by making a noise in the

world, when fired off from a mortar. Assuredly this is a very novel and

original method of shooting churchyard rubbish, and we recommend a fair

consideration of it to our vested parochial authorities.

Mr. Squier claims to be the first person who has described the ancient

monuments of Nicaragua, or, indeed, to have indicated their existence.

Excellent and numerous plates and cuts of these very interesting though

rather frightful relics are given in his work. Hitherto the antiquities

of the northern portion of Central America only have been explored, and

are familiar to us through the researches of Stephens and of Catherwood.

The Indians still reverence the shrines and statues of their ancient

gods, and are apt to conceal their knowledge about their localities and

existence. Those described by our traveller have mostly suffered

dilapidation through the religious zeal of the conquerors. They appear

to differ among themselves somewhat in degree of antiquity, but there is

no good reason--this is the conclusion to which Mr. Squier comes--for

supposing that they were not made by the nations found in possession of

the country. The structures in or about which, they were originally

placed were probably of wood, and great mounds and earthworks, like the

teocallis of Mexico, were associated with them.

A section of Mr. Squier's work is devoted to an elaborate dissertation

on the proposed interoceanic canal, illustrated by an excellent map. We

recommend these chapters to the consideration of all who are interested

upon this important subject. Like most parts of his book it is defaced

by not a few sneers at, and misstatements about, the English. About the

bad taste of these outbursts we shall not say more. That they should

come from a man who is professionally a diplomatist, is evidence of his

indiscretion and unfitness for his political calling. As an amusing

traveller and diligent antiquarian, however, we can do Mr. Squier full

honor, and were glad to see the just compliment lately paid to him in

London, when our Antiquarian Society elected him an honorary member.

[This interesting and important work of our countryman is reviewed in a

flattering manner in most of the great organs of critical opinion in

England, and its sale there, as well as in this country, has been very

large for one so costly.]

FOOTNOTES:

[7] Nicaragua; its People, Scenery, Monuments, and the Proposed

Inter-oceanic Canal. By E. G. Squier. New-York: Appletons.

From the Dublin University Magazine.

THE HEIRS OF RANDOLPH ABBEY.[8]

IV. THE MIDNIGHT VOICE AND ITS ANSWERED CALL.

Lady Randolph took leave of Lilias at the door of her room, and she

having, with infinite trepidation, declined the services of the lady's

maid, who seemed to her rather more awful and stately than the lady

herself, soon remained alone in the magnificent apartment which had been

assigned to her. She looked all around it with a glance of some

disquietude, for the vastness of the room, and the dark oak furniture,

made it look very gloomy. She contemplated the huge bed, which bore an

unpleasant resemblance to a hearse, with the utmost awe; it seemed to

her that there was room for a dozen concealed robbers within the massive

folds of the sombre curtains, and the reflection of her own figure in

the tall mirrors, looked strangely like a white ghost wandering

stealthily to and fro; the only gleam of comfort that shone in upon her,

was from the glimpse of the midnight sky that could be seen through the

chinks of the window-shutters. As the night was not cold she went and

threw the window open, feeling that the companionship of the stars would

destroy all these fantastic fancies; and very soon her sense of

loneliness and oppression passed away, for there came a soft wind that

lifted the curls of her long fair hair, and kissed her cheek

caressingly, and she could not help believing it was a breeze from the

Irish hills that bore to her the blessing of her kind old grandfather;

gayly as ever she closed the window and went to sit down, wondering if

ever she should feel inclined to sleep again after the excitement of the

last two days. She had unbound her hair and let it fall around her like

a golden veil, when, suddenly, a sound came floating towards her, on the

still night air, which irresistibly attracted her attention.

It was a sound of music, deep solemn music, rising with a power and

richness of melody she had never heard before; whence it came, or how it

was produced, she could not conceive, for it seemed to her unpractised

ear not to proceed from one instrument, but from many, and yet there was

through it all a unity of harmony which could result from the influence

of a single mind alone: now, it swelled out into soft thunders that

vibrated through the long passages up to the very roof of her vaulted

room, and deep into her beating heart, then it died away to a whisper

faint as the sigh of a child, only to rise again more glorious than

before; and, over all, heard distinct as the lark in heaven at morning's

dawn, there thrilled a voice of such unearthly sweetness that she could

not believe it belonged to an inhabitant of this world.

Lilias had one of those sensitive passionate souls over whom music has

an uncontrollable power; but as yet she had heard no other instrument

than an antique harpsichord of her grandmother's, and such singing as

the village girls regaled her with when they stood at work in the

fields. No wonder, then, that this wonderful strain had an effect upon

her like that of enchantment; it seemed to take possession of her whole

soul, and absorb every faculty. She became, as she listened, utterly

unconscious of all things, save that this entrancing melody drew her

towards it with an irresistible attraction; the sound was so distant,

yet so clear, she could not tell if even it were within the house at

all; but she did not ponder on its position, or on the nature of it;

only, like one who walks in sleep, she rose mechanically on her feet to

go to it. If her mind, steeped in that marvellous melody, could reflect

at all, it was to conclude that she had fallen asleep and was dreaming,

so that she had no thought but the longing not to awake from a dream so

beautiful. Slowly drawn by the sweet sounds, as by invisible chains, she

moved towards the door and opened it; then, sweeter, louder than before,

floating into her very soul, came that angel voice, with the full

swelling chords that seemed, as it were, to clothe it, filling her with

a sense of enjoyment so intense, that she would have felt constrained to

follow after it, even had she known it would lure her to some murderous

precipice, like the dangerous sirens in the haunted woods of Germany.

Truly there was a strange fascination in this soft and sublime music,

filling the quiet night as with a soul, whose breathing was melody. And

Lilias yielded without a thought, or effort, to the entrancing power,

which, like a mesmeric influence, drew her imperiously towards it,

panting and breathless, as though she feared the sounds would die before

she reached them--every faculty concentrated in the sense of hearing.

She hastened rapidly along the passages down the wide staircase, and,

guided by the deepening, volume of the strain, reached the door of the

great hall, which stood open. She passed within it, and at once

discerned, that from this room proceeded the wonderful harmony, which

had so allured her, the instrument whose solemn tones formed the

accompaniment was evidently the magnificent organ, which stood at the

further end of the hall; and, as she had never heard one before, it is

not to be wondered at that now, when a hand endowed with extraordinary

skill drew forth its full power, she should have been enraptured; but it

was not so much the majesty of sound, swelling from the noblest

instrument in the world, that had so won the very soul within her as the

voice, sounding almost celestial to her ears, which still was thrilling

with unutterable sweetness through the echoing hall. However glorious

those deep low chords, it was yet only the metal which gave them forth;

but there was a spirit in that voice which touched her own spirit, and

never again could her young soul be free and independent as it had been

before that mysterious contact.

A little while only does the new-created child of dust stand lonely upon

earth, as Adam stood in Eden before he woke from his deep sleep to meet

the living glance of Eve--a little while in the passionless ignorance of

youth, and then is the mortal being free--free from thought, from

affection, from desire; but soon, through all the wild tumult and

turmoil of the world, he hears the voice calling to him, which demands

the surrender of his whole being in one deep human love, and no sooner

is that whisper heard echoing in the depths of his heart than,

straightway, he yields up the sweet empire of his life's affections; and

henceforward, whether he is blest in close companionship, or divided by

some gulf impassable, over which, most vain and mournfully, he stretches

out the longing arms that only grasp the vacant air, still never more is

he alone, or free, for he must live in another's life, and, even in

death, desire another's grave.

And was it to be thus with Lilias! the gentle, single-hearted child?

As she stood at the door of the hall, the words which that angel voice

was breathing into music came with a strange, deep meaning on her ears.

There was no light save that of the moon, which streamed in long, soft

rays from the one large window, and reached even the gilded fluting of

the organ, yet, through the dim shadows, she could perceive that a

musician sat before it. The face only was visible to her in that half

light; the upturned face, with the dark hair falling round it, and the

deep gray eyes made luminous by the living soul that was shining through

them. Never had she looked on him who sat there before, nor could she

tell if in truth that countenance had any beauty; only there was upon it

now a spiritual loveliness emanating from the solemn thoughts that moved

him, which entered into her heart and there abode, to fade only when

itself should moulder beneath the coffin lid.

And now, still drawn onwards by the voice, her noiseless feet went down

the hall, till, by the side of the unconscious musician, she knelt down

meekly, for it seemed to her as though adoring reverence were the

needful homage of one who could create such harmony; and there, in

breathless rapture, with parted lips, and folded hands, she remained all

motionless, till the soft music died away, as if those sounds had been

withdrawn again into the heaven to which they belonged.

Then he turned, and his eyes fell upon the kneeling figure by his side;

he started violently, and remained mute with surprise, his heart well

nigh stopping in its beating with astonishment; almost it seemed to him

as if his music had drawn down an angel from the regions of perpetual

melody; so fair and spotless did she seem, the moonlight falling on her

soft white robes, and weaving her floating hair into a golden tissue

with the mingling of its own bright rays. Speechless he remained gazing

with the earnest wish that this pure vision might not pass away into a

dream. But meantime the cessation of music had unbound the chains that

held her young soul captive, and when the sweet face turned towards him

the childlike features, solemn with intensity of feeling, he saw that

they were human eyes which met his own, eyes that could weep for sorrow,

and grow beautiful with tenderness, for now a timid glance stole into

them, and a faint smile to the parted lips. Unconsciously, he let his

hands fall softly on her head and said:

"Where have you come from? who are you?"

"Lilias," she answered, simply, as a child that tells its name when

asked.

"Lily, indeed," he said, "most fair and lovely as the snow-white lilies

are; but no such gentle vision ever came to me before in these dark

hours, though I have been here lonely, night by night. I thought at

first it was a spirit kneeling there; and it is scarce less marvellous

to me that a human being should visit me in my solitude, than that some

merciful angel should come to cheer me. How is it, then, that you are

here?"

"The music seemed to call me and I came," she said; "it was so very

beautiful it drew my whole soul after it; but I know I should not have

ventured here at such an hour, and now I will go back, only----"

She hesitated, and looked up pleadingly into the eyes that were turned

with such admiring wonder on her----

"You live in this house?" she asked.

"I do," he replied, and then bowed his head as though the answer were

one of shame.

"Then will you promise me," she said, "that I shall hear these glorious

sounds once more? I feel as though I could have no rest till I may

listen to them yet again, and to the voice that was as a soul within

them. May I come here to-morrow, and will you bestow on me the greatest

pleasure I have ever known, for, indeed, I never felt such deep

enjoyment as in hearing that solemn strain?"

"Most gladly would I--most gladly see you again, sweet Lily; since that

is your sweet name; but do you know who I am?"

"No, excepting that I think you will be my friend,--at least I shall

hope it,--for the soul that could utter that divine song must be so

worthy of all friendship."

These gentle words seemed literally to make him tremble, as another

might to hear the ravings of passion.

"Oh do not speak so softly to me," he said, "I am unused to kindness,

and it unmans me; besides, soon you will know all, and then you will

neither have the will nor power to befriend me, and it were better for

me not to have the hope of your future sympathy, thus given for a

moment and then withdrawn."

"But why withdrawn?" she said, with her gaze of innocent surprise.

"You are Sir Michael's niece, are you not, the child of his favorite

brother--his heiress probably?"

"I am his niece, but not his heiress surely; there are so many worthier

heirs, are you not one of them?"

"I! I am Hubert Lyle." He seemed to expect that at the sound of that

name she would recoil in fear or indignation, but she only repeated the

words "Hubert Lyle," and then shook her head gently to intimate that it

was an unknown sound to her; he smiled with pleasure to hear his name so

softly spoken by the lips of one who seemed to him the purest, sweetest

vision that ever had blest his eyes on earth. "I see you have not yet

learned all the secrets of this house," he said, "but it will not be

long before Sir Michael's niece shall have been taught that there is one

beneath this roof whom she must hate, hate even with a deadly animosity.

I think it will be a hard lesson for such a gentle nature;" he added

almost pityingly. A new light seemed to break in upon her.

"Oh, is it possible?" she exclaimed; "was it then of you that my uncle

spoke with such a bitter animosity, as it makes me shiver to think one

human being should ever have the power to feel towards another?"

"I am, indeed, the object of his abhorrence."

"But unjustly," she exclaimed, fixing her candid eyes steadily on his

face. "I know, I feel, you have not deserved this cruel hatred."

"Not at your uncle's hands, indeed, not, I think, at those of any human

being, for I know that wilfully I have injured none; but, doubtless,

this discipline is all too little for my deserts, as I must seem unto no

mortal sight, and so it must be borne patiently." This humanity touched

Lilias to the very heart, her voice trembled with eagerness as she said:

"But do not speak as though I or any other could ever share in the wrong

he does you; rather is it our part to make you forget it, as you have

forgiven it, by our friendship justly and gladly granted to you."

"Most innocent child," he said, "it is plain you never yet have listened

to the voice of your worldly interest; but when that world shall have

taught you the value of Sir Michael's favor, then will even this

guileless heart be moved to feel or simulate a due abhorrence for his

enemy."

"Never!" she exclaimed, lifting up her childlike head with a noble

dignity, and throwing back the long hair that she might stand face to

face with him to whom she spoke. "Listen, I do not know you; as yet I

cannot tell if in very deed you are worthy of the loyal true-hearted

friendship, which it is a blessing to give and to receive from our

fellow-creatures; but my heart tells me you are so, even to the very

uttermost, for I think that none could be otherwise, and dare to sing

such solemn strains before high heaven at dead of night; and if it be

so--if indeed you are worthy of the esteem and sympathy of all who can

distinguish between right and wrong--then is it your lawful due, of

which I would not dare defraud you, for it were high treason against the

truth and majesty of goodness. If we are bound to adore perfection in

its eternal Source and Essence, so is it our very duty and service to

pay tribute to the faint reflection of that spirit in the frail human

creature; and neither my uncle, nor any other on this earth, has a right

to ask of me, or shall compel me, to act a lie against the sovereign

virtue I am sworn to worship loyally, by withholding the homage of my

friendship to all that are good and true of heart."

"Pray heaven no taint from this bad world may ever reach your soul,"

were the words that burst from the lips of Hubert Lyle. "Yes, keep--keep

your pure wisdom and your noble principle; blessed is he who taught them

to you; but, alas! if ever I were worthy of the gift of your esteem on

the basis of that rectitude of which you speak, could even your

beautiful philosophy stand the test to which it would be put before you

could give to _me_ the name of friend. The darkness covers me and you do

not yet know what I am--how smitten of heaven as well as hunted down of

men; how, by the very decree of nature, repugnant in their sight, not

less than hated for another's sake. But I will not deceive you; none

could look upon your face and hide one shadow of the bitterest truth:

come, and let me show you what I am, and do not fear to shrink away from

me when you have seen that sight. I hope for nothing else from any on

this earth, for the gentlest look that human eyes have ever had for me,

has been one of sorrowing pity."

He took her by the hand, and led her slowly down the hall towards the

window, where the moonlight was streaming with a full clear radiance.

Through the shadows they went solemnly hand in hand, and a sensation of

awe took possession of her; she felt as if he were leading her to the

threshold of a new life; strange and unknown feelings were stirring at

her heart, and a deep instinct whispering there, seemed to tell her that

what he was about to reveal would have an influence on her whole future

existence. He dropped her hand when they passed within the circle of

light, and, placing himself where the beams fell brightest, he turned

and looked upon her. Then she saw that he was smitten indeed, and that

heaven had laid a load upon his mortal frame, heavy, as that which man

had built upon his shrinking soul. Hubert Lyle was hopelessly and

fearfully deformed. It would seem as though it were designed for him

that he should be crushed both in body and in spirit, for his neck was

bowed as by an iron power, and the sadness of a life's long humiliation

was stamped on that upturned face; unlike the countenance of many who

are deformed in body, there was no beauty on it save in the deep,

thoughtful eyes, and the pale forehead, whence dark masses of hair were

swept aside.

Oh, how the heart of Lilias trembled as she looked upon him and read the

measure of his twofold suffering. An outcast, by deformity, from the

common race of man, and trodden down in soul by unmerited contumely or

hate. How to the very depths was stirred within her that well of

tenderness and pity for the oppressed which gushes in every woman's

heart, as she saw in his whole aspect the evidence of a resolute and

noble endurance, a patient meekness, untinged by a trace of bitterness!

She could have wept over him, for she was one of those unhappily gifted

whose soul is like a sensitive plant, and shrinks from the touch of

sufferings in others with an exquisite susceptibility. Her natural

delicacy, however, taught her that she must hide from him how deeply his

infirmity had moved her; he must see in her no evidence of the insulting

pity to which alone he seemed accustomed. He had spoken of her shrinking

away from him; she drew nearer, and lifting up her eyes, smiled one

quiet, gentle smile, as though in token that she had seen nought to

surprise or grieve her; that look was balm to him, used only to the

half-averted glance of sad repugnance which we are wont to cast on an

unsightly object. His voice shook with mingled eagerness and delight as

he said:

"Could you indeed take such a deformed wretch as I am by the hand, and

stand forth before all the world to acknowledge him your friend?"

"Is it, then, the perishable, mortal body that we love and hold

communion with, in those who are mercifully given to be our friends?"

she answered; "the frame that shall be a thing of dust and worms so

soon? Is it not the indestructible soul to which we give our sympathy,

and is not that sympathy immortal as itself? for nothing good and pure

that ever was created can have power to perish, though it be only the

subtle feeling of a human heart; and so the friendship which is given by

one deathless spirit to another is a link between them for their

eternity of life, and what has it to do with the outward circumstances

of our brief sojourn here?" She paused, and then anxious to dispel the

sort of solemnity which had gained on both of them, she said, playfully:

"You have not yet found a good reason why I should not some day be your

friend; but I think I shall soon give you little cause to wish for my

acquaintance, if I keep you any longer in conversation at this strange

hour of the night. I must go; for, indeed, I have lingered too long;

but, no doubt, we shall meet again." He did not seek to detain her; he

felt that he ought not; but he knew that the smile so sweet and kindly

with which she had looked on his unsightly frame would linger like a

sunbeam in his memory; and that, yet more, the words of pure, calm

wisdom she had uttered would never depart from his sad heart; for the

faith she had shown in that one deep truth, that all things good, and

beautiful, and worth the having, are created for eternity, and in no

sense to be influenced by the accidents (so to speak) of this mere

outward life, had suddenly lightened the load of his deformity, which so

long had crushed down his entire being, and made him feel that it was

his undying soul which stood face to face with hers--no less

immortal--and that he, the actual _ego_ the very self, had nought to do

with this poor frame, the magnet, as he long had deemed it, of the

world's hate and scorn, but, in truth, only the temporary clothing, soon

to be put off, and now unworthy of a thought: he had felt this, as

regards the life which was to come, when he should be disembarrassed of

his mortal body; but he had not understood what a deep joy the truth of

this principle could cast even into this present existence. None had

taught him, by the sweet teaching of entire sympathy, that all true

affection is but planted in the germ here, and has its full fruition

only in eternity.

These thoughts rose like morning light on his soul, as he stood gazing,

thoughtfully, upon her; whilst she, now that the enthusiasm, which had

been called forth by the expression of her own bright faith had died

away, had yielded to her womanly timidity, and stood half shy, half

embarrassed, not knowing how to take leave of the companion she had so

strangely encountered. He saw this, and, with a ready courtesy, opened

the door for her, and bade her good night, thanking her gently for the

sweet words of comfort she had spoken. She expressed a hope once more

that they should meet again, and so vanished from his sight. The white

figure passing away into the shadows, like some fair dream into the

darkness of a deeper sleep. He remained standing on the spot where she

left him, clasping his hands tightly on his breast. "Meet again!" he

repeated thoughtfully, echoing the words she had uttered. "I will not

desire it; I will not seek it: surely it were the greatest peril that

ever has crossed my path. How have I labored for peace these many years,

and have attained it only by stripping my life of every hope and wish

connected with this world. I have so veiled my eyes to its allurements,

from which I am for ever exiled, that all the living things within it

have become to me as moving shadows in the twilight; whilst my own soul

has been bathed in the sunlight of an eternal hope; but if the smile of

these sweet eyes came falling on my heart again--if the spirit that

looked through them be, indeed, as beautiful as I believe it--if, day

by day, I saw the outward loveliness, and felt the inward beauty,

infinitely fairer, it could not fail, but I should grow to love her.

I--I--the deformed outcast! Oh! could my worst enemy--could even he who

hates the very ground on which I walk, desire for me a deeper curse than

that I should bring upon myself, if ever I made room in this my soul for

human love. It must not be; I can and will avoid her. I will believe

that I have slept and woke again; and this night shall be to me but as

one in which I have dreamt a brighter dream than usual."

He resumed his habitual composure as these thoughts passed through his

mind; the resolute calm, which was the habitual expression of his face,

returned to it, and quietly he left that old hall where the first scene

in the drama of Lilias Randolph's life had been enacted.

She soon was lying in a tranquil slumber--the deep sleep of an innocent

heart that is altogether at rest; but through all her dreams that night,

there went a voice whose echo was to haunt her soul for evermore.

V. A MEETING FOR THE DISSECTION OF SOULS.

Lilias, like most blythe young spirits, never could sleep after the

morning beams came to visit her eyelids; and, despite the unusual

excitement of the preceding night, she was roaming through the house at

a very early hour, looking bright and fresh as the day-dawn itself. She

passed through the old hall with timid steps, though it was now deserted

by the musician, with whom her thoughts had been busy ever since she

awoke. Deep was the pity that had sprung to life, never more to die in

her young heart for him: not a barren pity, but active, tender,

_woman-like_, that would take no rest till it had found some means of

ministering to his happiness. For the present it expended itself in an

earnest desire to discover all concerning him, and most especially

whether, amongst all the inhabitants of Randolph Abbey, he had no friend

to counterbalance the animosity of his one known enemy. To see him again

likewise, not once but often, was a determination which she could not

fail to form after the conversation she had held with him; her generous

spirit was in some sense bound to this, and it did but deepen her

longing to draw near to one so doubly stricken. Occupied with these

thoughts, Lilias passed through the drawing-room to a verandah which

opened from it, and where she could enjoy the fresh air whilst sheltered

from the sun. There were couches placed there, and as Lilias moved

towards one of them, she was startled by perceiving a motionless figure

extended upon it.

It was Aletheia, apparently in a profound slumber; but to Lilias she

seemed like a corpse laid out for burial, so pale, so rigid was her

face. The cold, white hands were folded on her breast as in dumb

supplication, and they were scarce stirred by her slow breathing, or the

dull, heavy beating of her heart. Her countenance bore an expression of

extreme fatigue, and it seemed plain to Lilias that she had been walking

to a great distance. Her hair, matted with dew, was clinging wet to her

temples, and her bonnet lay on the ground beside her. Lilias gazed at

her with a feeling almost of awe, wondering what was the secret of this

strange cousin's life, and a slight movement which she made awoke

Aletheia. Slowly the eyelids rose over those sad eyes, and revealed, as

the power of thought stole into them, a depth of pain, of mute entreaty,

which seemed to indicate an imploring desire that she might not be

commanded to take up the burden of returning life. She tried to close

them again, but in vain; the light sleep was altogether broken, and,

raising herself up, with a heavy sigh she turned a look of involuntary

reproach on Lilias.

"I am so sorry I awoke you," said the latter, breathlessly. "I did not

mean it, indeed; you were not resting well; but I am afraid you did not

wish to be awakened."

"No," said the low voice of Aletheia, which seemed ever to come from her

lips without stirring them, "for it is the only injury any one can do to

me."

"An injury!" said Lilias, in her innocent surprise, "to wake on this

bright morning and beautiful world."

"Bright and beautiful," said Aletheia, musingly, "how these words are

like dreams of long, long ago. My days have no part in them now; but

think no more of having awakened me, it matters nothing; and it would

have been strange, indeed, if such as you had known how many are roused

to the morning light with the one cry in their heart--'must I, must I

live again?'"

"I cannot conceive it," said Lilias; "I always wish there were no night,

it seems so sad to go away and shut one's eyes on all one loves and

admires."

"Yet, believe me, to some sleep is precious--more precious even than

death, for all it seems so like an angel of rest and mercy; the brief

forgetfulness of sleep is certain, whilst in death the soul feels there

is no oblivion."

It was to the gay, young Lilias, as though Aletheia were speaking in an

unknown tongue; her unclouded spirit understood none of these things;

but in spite of her prejudice against this strange person, she felt

struck with pity as she saw her sitting there with the wet hair clinging

to her cold, white cheek.

"You are very tired; I am afraid," she said, "you have walked a long

distance."

Aletheia started, and the pale lips grew paler, as she exclaimed, almost

passionately--

"You have been watching me!"

"No, indeed," said Lilias, distressed at the idea, "how could you think

me capable of it? I did not see you until I came into the verandah; but

I guessed you had gone out early, because your clothes are all wet with

dew."

Aletheia rose up.

"Lilias, you are come to live in the same house with me, and therefore

is it necessary I should make to you one prayer. I do beseech you, as

you hope that men will deal mercifully with your life, grant me the only

mercy they can give to mine--leave me alone; forget that I exist; live

as if I did not, or were dead. I ask nothing but this, to be unmolested

and forgotten."

She turned to go into the room as she spoke, but she was stopped by the

appearance of Gabriel, who was creeping, with his quiet, stealthy step,

towards her; his blue eyes, usually so soft, glowing with the intensity

of his ardent gaze. She paused and looked at him sadly.

"Gabriel, you heard what I said to Lilias just now; it is nothing new to

you; you know well and deeply what is my one desire--the petition I make

to all. Why, then, will you live, as it were in my shadow--why will you

persecute me?" He made no answer, but by folding his hands in mute

appeal and bowing his head humbly over them. She passed him in silence,

and went into the house. He followed softly after her, and Lilias was

left alone.

The poor child drew a long breath, and felt at the moment an intense

desire to be at liberty amongst the Connaught hills again, where the

thoughts and words of the rough country people seemed free and fresh as

the winds that blew there; all seemed so strange and mysterious in this

house; she had been brought suddenly into contact with that deep human

passion of which she knew nothing, and felt as if she were in the midst

of some entangled web, where nothing plain or regular was to be seen.

Her momentary wish to escape, however, died away, as the recollection

came upon her, borne as it were, by the wings of memory, of the one

sweet haunting voice, and solemn strain. Nor was she long left to her

own reflections; Sir Michael, who so rarely left his own rooms, came in

search of her, and fairly monopolized her during the whole of the day.

He persuaded her to stay with him in his laboratory, and seemed to take

infinite pleasure in hearing her talk of all that had been joy to her in

her past life.

And truly it was a strange sight to see her in that dark little den,

with her innocent face and her fair white robes, sitting so fearlessly

at the feet of the old man, telling him stories of Irish banshees, and

sunny nooks in her native valley, where her nurse said the fairies

danced all night long. To hear her talk, and to have her sweet presence,

was to Sir Michael as though some fresh breeze were passing over his

withered soul; and the tones of her voice were so like those of his

long-lost brother, that at times he could dream they were side by side

again, both young, full of hope that was to bear fruit, for him at

least, in bitterest despair, and with passions yet unchained from the

depth of his heart. The first pleasure he had tasted for years was in

Lilias's society, and he inwardly determined to enjoy as much of it

henceforward as was possible--a resolution which we may so far

anticipate as to mention he rigidly kept, to the sore discomfiture of

poor little Lilias.

He had a deeper motive for it in the movement of jealousy he had

witnessed in his beautiful wife, when he took his niece in his arms the

day before. Indifferent as she was to him, she was too thorough a woman

to relish the idea, that the sole and undivided dominion she had

maintained over his heart was to be diminished by the entrance even of

the most natural affection. She need have had no fears; the passion of a

life was not now to be tempered by any such influence. Lilias was to him

simply an occupation for his restless mind; she preserved him from

thinking, better than his chemical experiments, and, above all, she gave

him the exquisite delight of feeling that he had power to move his

scornful wife even yet; so Lilias was doomed from that day to be his

constant companion.

He did not suppose she would like it, though he did not guess, as she

sat by his side, how restlessly her poor little feet were longing to be

away bounding on the soft, green grass; but he resolved to compensate

her for her daily imprisonment by making her his heiress: a

determination subject to any change of circumstances that might cause

him to alter it, which he did not conceal either from her or the rest of

the family.

We are anticipating, however; the first day of Lilias's probation is not

yet over. Very wearily it passed, because her eager mind was bent on

seeing Hubert Lyle; and not only did her uncle never mention his name,

but she found no opportunity of asking any one who and what he was, and

where she could meet with him again. It was not till the evening that

she found the family once more assembled, and as she gazed round amongst

them all with this object in her thoughts, she felt there was but one

who inspired her with any confidence, or to whom she could speak freely.

This was Walter, with his fine frank countenance and winning smile; and

she was very glad when they found themselves accidentally alone in the

music-room, where Sir Michael left them, after listening, with evident

pleasure, to her sweet voice singing like a bird in the sky.

Lilias turned round hastily to Walter, with such a pair of speaking

eyes, that he laughed gayly, and answered them at once----

"How can I help you? I see you have a great deal to say."

"Oh, yes, cousin Walter; I have been longing to speak to you; you are

the only one in all this house I am not afraid of. I want you to tell me

so many things!"

"And what things, dear Lilias? This is rather vague."

"Oh, every thing about every body, they are all so mysterious."

"Well, so they are," he said laughing: "I find them so myself. I can

quite fancy how you feel, like a poor little fly, caught in some great

web, and surrounded by spiders of all kinds and dimensions, each weaving

their separate snares."

"Precisely; and now I want you to explain all the spiders to me; you

must classify them, and tell me which are venomous, and which are not,"

she said, laughing along with him.

"I wish I could," answered Walter, "but they are quite beyond me--they

are not in my line at all, I assure you. I never could keep a secret in

my life; but I will do my best to enlighten you. I can tell you certain

peculiarities at all events. Suppose we make a sort of catechism of it;

you shall question and I shall answer."

"Very well," said Lilias, entering into the spirit of his gayety, "and

so to begin--Why does Lady Randolph look so strangely at Sir Michael,

and always seem anxious to go out of the room whenever he comes in?"

"Because she hates him," replied Walter.

"How very strange; people seem to hate a good deal at Randolph Abbey;

but is it always their nearest relations, as in this case?"

"Why no; as you proceed in your catechism I doubt not we shall have

occasion to mention certain hatreds in this household, which are in no

sense affected by natural ties."

"Well to proceed," said Lilias; "why does Gabriel hour after hour keep

his eyes fixed on Aletheia, with a strange look which makes me fancy he

thinks she would die if he were to cease gazing on her?"

"Because he loves her," answered Walter.

"But she does not love him," exclaimed Lilias, with a woman's instinct.

"Most certainly not."

"There is so much I have to ask about her. Tell me why it is that she

has such imploring eyes. I never, on a human face, saw an expression of

such mute entreaty; I saw it once in the wistful look of a poor deer

which they killed on our Irish hills. I remember so well when it lay

wounded, and the gamekeeper came near with the knife, it lifted up its

great brown eyes with just such a dumb beseeching gaze, but that was

only for a moment. It soon died, poor thing; and with Aletheia, that

mournful supplication seems stamped on her countenance, as though her

very life were to be spent in it."

"Ah! if you ask me about Aletheia," said Walter, "I am powerless at

once. I can tell you nothing of her; she is a greater mystery in herself

than all the rest put together; this only seems plain to me, that her

existence is, for some unexplicable reason, one living agony."

"If I thought so I should be so angry with myself for having felt

prejudiced against her, which, I confess, I have done, for a reason I

could not name to you. She is so cold and statue-like, I thought she

seemed lost to all human feeling; but if it be suffering, and not

insensibility, which makes her move about amongst us as if she had been

dead, and forced unwillingly to live again, I should try to overcome the

sort of awe with which she has inspired me."

"I believe it matters little how you feel respecting her, for you will

never conquer her impenetrable reserve; even poor Gabriel, who seems

fascinated by her to a marvellous extent, has ever struggled vainly

against her implacable calm. It is seldom, I think, that one human being

can so lavish all his sympathies upon another, as he has done on her,

without gaining some sign of life at least; but he tells me it is as

though the living soul within her were cased in iron; he cannot draw it

out of the dungeon where she seems to have buried it, to meet even for a

moment his own ardent spirit."

"But I hardly wonder at this, if she does not love him," said Lilias.

"You mistake me," replied Walter: "I do not expect that she should

return his affection; but she seems utterly unaware of its existence;

she appears ever to be so intent in listening to some voice we cannot

hear, that all human words are unheeded by her; those deep, beseeching

eyes of hers are ever gazing out, as though the world and all the things

of it, were but moving shadows for her, because of the greatness of some

one thought which is alone reality to her; yet that there lives a most

burning soul within that statue of ice, I can no more doubt than that

the snows of Etna hide, but do not quench its fiery heart."

"And does no one know the secret of her life?" asked Lilias.

"No one, that I am aware of--none at least, now living; that her father

did, whose idol she was, I have reason to think from some remarks of Sir

Michael's; he himself knows possibly somewhat more than we do, though

assuredly not the real truth, nor more than some external peculiarities

of her position. I have heard, however, that before she would consent to

come here, even for six months, and that with the chance of being chosen

as the heiress, she made certain conditions with her uncle respecting

the liberty she was to be allowed. I presume this to refer chiefly to a

strange visit which she receives one day in every month, on which day

alone I believe has any human being seen her moved."

"And who is this visitor?" exclaimed Lilias.

"That is more than I can tell you; and all I know of him is that I have

heard his sharp quick step, which certainly is the step of a man, going

across the hall to the library, where Aletheia receives him; and an hour

or so later I have heard the same tread as he leaves the house; then

the galloping of his horse sounds for a moment on the gravel, and that

is all that any one at Randolph Abbey hears of the only friend she seems

to possess."

"Does even Gabriel not know him?"

"He may have seen him; but he does not know him, I am sure; it is quite

wonderful how little knowledge he has acquired concerning Aletheia,

considering the means he has taken to penetrate her secret--means which,

I confess to you, I should have scorned to employ, even though, like

him, my dearest interests were at stake; for instance, he has actually

more than once tracked her in her mysterious morning walks."

"What! does she walk every day," said Lilias, in astonishment; "I found

her this morning lying quite exhausted in the verandah. She must have

been to a great distance; surely she does not do the same every day?"

"Every day, so far as I know, she does walk to precisely the same spot,

and that several miles distance; it is certainly beyond her strength,

for she is often in a state of frightful exhaustion when she returns;

but even in the coldest spring mornings she used to leave the house,

long before it was light, to make this pilgrimage; it seems she wishes

to avoid the observation she would incur later in the day."

"Then it was cruel of Gabriel to follow her."

"It was; but I think he is often maddened to find how his great love

comes beating up against the rock of her impenetrable calm, like waves

upon the shore, leaving no trace behind."

"Do you know," said Lilias, with a wondering look in her cloudless eyes,

"I think Gabriel has his mysteries too, like every one else in this

strange house. I can understand his watching Aletheia, if his whole

heart is for ever turning to her, as you describe; but it is not her

alone, for in the short time I have know him, I am sure he has managed

to find out more about me than ever I knew myself; those soft blue eyes

of his seem to look so stealthily into one's soul. I am convinced he

could tell you every thing I have done and said the whole of this day.

You know Sir Michael made me stay with him ever since morning, but I

never passed out of this room without meeting Gabriel in the passage."

"That I can easily believe. I always feel as if Gabriel acted in this

delectable abode the part of a cat watching innumerable mice; he has an

anomalous sort of character; but one of his qualities is sufficiently

distinct, which is a very acute penetration; he can divine the most

intricate affairs from the smallest possible indications. For my own

part, I make not the slightest attempt to conceal my innermost thoughts

from him; happily I have nothing to hide, but if I had, I should let him

know it at once; it would save all trouble, as he would infallibly find

it out."

"But what do you mean by an anomalous character?" asked Lilias.

"A sort of double nature; he seems to me to have naturally good impulses

on which some guiding hand has ingrafted a calculating disposition that

sorely warps them; he has no control whatever over his passions, yet the

most perfect over his outward words and actions, whereby he effectually

conceals them when he so pleases. Certain it is, that he has an

indomitable will to which every thing else is subservient; but much of

this inconsistency of his character may be attributed to his position;

here he is the nephew of Sir Michael Randolph--the possible heir of

Randolph Abbey; but he was educated by a person whom we know to be of

low station, and I believe must be equally so in mind."

"His mother?" asked Lilias.

"Yes; I know nothing of her, nor does he ever allude to his past life. I

do not even know where she lives; he is simply ashamed of her, I

presume, and I sometimes think we should have the key-stone to Gabriel's

character in a violent ambition, were it not so neutralized by his not

less violent love for Aletheia. Dear Lilias, why do you start so, what

do you see?"

"He is there," she said, half frightened, and glancing to the open door

through which, with his soft steps, Gabriel was gliding.

"Of course, considering whom we were speaking of," said Walter,

laughingly, "it is an invariable rule, you know. Come along, Gabriel,"

he added, turning to his cousin, "I need not mention that we were

discussing you, as by the simple rule of cause and effect, it was that

circumstance which produced your appearance."

"Not by my overhearing you," said Gabriel, quickly.

"My dear fellow, there was not the least occasion for that; you were

obeying a mysterious law, which is summarily stated in a proverb quite

unfit for ears polite; but your arrival is most opportune; your services

will be very available to Lilias and myself; allow me to offer you a

chair, and invest you at once with your office."

"And how am I to be made useful?" said Gabriel, attempting, by a forced

smile, to sympathize in Walter's playful manner of viewing the subject.

"Why, you must know," and he laid an emphasis on the word _must_, for

Lilias's behoof, "that Miss Lilias Randolph and I have begun a course of

moral dissection of the inhabitants of this house, in which she acts the

part of a young and very inexperienced surgeon, and I that of a most

grave and potent doctor. We had just finished you off, and were

proceeding to the dismemberment of the rest of the family; in this

interesting study I think you can materially assist us, seeing you have

some very sharp and subtle instrument for this species of anatomy."

"I was not aware I possessed any such," said Gabriel; "it would ill

befit me in my position to make myself a judge of any here."

"Now don't begin to be humble and make us ashamed of ourselves. I

consider it quite an important matter to Lilias that she should know her

ground here so far as possible; so let us parade the remainder of our

dear relations before her as fast as we can."

A strange smile passed over Gabriel's face, as if he doubted that the

gentle Lilias, and the frank-hearted Walter, would discover much

concerning that intricate ground on which they stood; but he made no

remark, and simply said--

"And who stands next on the list after my unworthy self?"

"That is for Lilias to determine; we wait your orders, lady dear."

"You are learning to speak Irish," she said, smiling.

"A most likely consummation," murmured Gabriel.

"Oh! I could say better things than that in Irish," said Walter,

coughing off the slight confusion his cousin's remark had produced; "but

you must really tell us whom you mean to propose for our inspection, or

this council of war will last till midnight."

"This council for the preliminaries of war," said the low voice of

Gabriel, giving an unpleasant aspect of truth to an expression which

Walter had carelessly used with no special meaning.

For a moment Lilias made no answer; the thought which had been present

with her throughout the whole of this conversation, and that which had

alone, indeed, given it any interest for her, was, that she might obtain

some information respecting Hubert Lyle; yet now that the time was come

when she must name him or lose her opportunity, she felt, in a lower

degree, something of that unwillingness to broach the subject, which we

have to mention any secret act of self-devotion. The solemn music which

had been the means of leading her into his presence; the unearthly

serenity with which his soul had looked at her through those eyes that

reminded her of the still waters of some unruffled lake, where only the

glory of heaven is reflected; and above all, his infirmity, so meekly

borne, had invested him with a sacredness in her mind which made her

feel as if it was almost a profanation to speak of him to indifferent

ears. With a slight trembling in the voice, which did not escape the

quick perception of Gabriel, she said, "There is yet one of whom I would

inquire--Hubert Lyle." Both her cousins started at the name, but Gabriel

instantly repressed his astonishment, while Walter as freely gave vent

to his.

"Is it possible you have heard of him already? who can have been bold

enough to mention him?" he said.

"Why, I have not only heard of him, I have seen him."

"Seen him!" even Gabriel exclaimed at this. Lilias looked up with a

smile.

"I think he must be the most mysterious of all," she said, "you seem so

surprised."

"You would not wonder at that if you knew more of the 'secrets of this

prison-house,'" said Walter, "which you must know is no inapt quotation

as regards Hubert Lyle, for he certainly acts, in some sense, the part

of Hamlet."

"Without Hamlet's soul," said Gabriel, softly.

"Without Hamlet's madness, rather, I should say; for I cannot doubt,

from all I have heard, that Hubert has a noble soul, though not one

which would lead him, like the Prince of Denmark, to make to himself an

idol of the principle of vengeance."

"And Lilias is waiting meanwhile to tell us where she saw him," said

Gabriel.

"Is it Lilias or you who are waiting?" said Walter, laughing; "for my

part, I frankly confess that my curiosity is greatly excited, so pray

tell us."

And she did so at once, for there was not a thought of guile in this

young girl's heart. She told how, in the quiet night, she had heard a

solemn voice of music that had called her spirit with an irresistible

allurement; and how she had risen up and followed where it led, till it

had brought her into the presence of him of whom they spoke; but she

went no farther; she said nothing of the conversation which had drawn

those stranger souls more closely together than weeks of ordinary

intercourse could have done; for she felt that Lyle had been surprised

into speaking of his private feelings; and the subject of his infirmity

was one she could not have brought herself to mention; the sympathy with

which he had inspired her was of that nature which made her feel as

sensitive as she would have done had the affliction been her own. Yet,

though she did not enter into details, the deep interest she felt for

him gave a soft tremulousness to her voice, which was duly noticed by

Gabriel, as he sat looking intently at her with the keen gaze which his

meek eyes knew so well how to give from under their long lashes.

"And now," said she, "tell me who and what he is, he seems to occupy so

strange a position in this house?"

"Not more strange than cruel," said Walter; "he is the son of Lady

Randolph, by her first husband; she had been engaged to Sir Michael

before she met Mr. Lyle, who was his first cousin, but she had never

cared for him, and yielded at once to the intense passion which sprung

up between Mr. Lyle and herself; she married him, and from that hour Sir

Michael hated him with such a hate, I believe, as this world has rarely

seen. When his rival died, he transferred this miserable, bitter feeling

to the son, Hubert, simply because the widow had, in like manner, turned

all the deep love she had felt for the dead husband on the living

son--not for his own merits, for poor Hubert has few attractions, but

solely because he bears his father's name, and looks at her with his

father's eyes. I believe she has even the cruelty to tell him so. She

worships so the memory of her early love, that she will not have it

thought her heart could spare any affection, even to her child, were he

not his son also. It has always seemed to me the saddest fate for her

unhappy son, to be thus the object of such vehement hate, and no less

powerful love, and yet to feel that he has neither deserved the one, nor

gained the other, in his own person, but solely as the representative of

a dead man who can feel no more."

"Miserable, indeed," said Lilias, folding her hands as though she would

have asked mercy for him; "how cruel! how cruel! but his mother, how

could she marry Sir Michael when she so loved, and still loves, another?

this seems to me a fearful thing."

"Starvation is more so," muttered Gabriel.

"Starvation!" exclaimed Lilias.

"Yes," said Walter; "Mrs. Lyle and her son were actually left in such

destitution at her husband's death, that she certainly married Sir

Michael for no other purpose but to procure a home for herself and her

child. How it came to pass that she was in this extreme poverty, I know

not; report says that it was the result of Sir Michael's persecution of

Mr. Lyle in his lifetime; but I can hardly believe this of our uncle."

"No, indeed," said Lilias.

"One thing is certain, that it sorely diminished Sir Michael's delight

in marrying the woman he had loved so long, to find that he must submit

to the continual presence of her son in the house; but she forced him to

enter into a solemn agreement that Hubert was always to reside with

them, and he agreed, on condition that he crossed his path as seldom as

possible. This part of the arrangement is almost overdone by poor Lyle,

who is, I believe, like most persons afflicted with personal infirmity,

singularly sensitive and full of delicate feeling. He never leaves his

own rooms except to go to his mother's apartments, unless Sir Michael

happens to be absent, when Lady Randolph generally forces him to make

his appearance among us. I believe his only amusement is playing on the

organ half the night, as you found him."

"And do none of you ever go to see him, and try to comfort him,"

exclaimed Lilias; "do none befriend him in all this house?"

"You forget," said Gabriel, hastily, evidently desirous to prevent

Walter from answering till he had spoken himself, "that any one who

sought out Hubert Lyle, and made a friend of him, would incur Sir

Michael's displeasure to such a degree that he would strike him at once

off the list of his heirs, and the penalty of his philanthropy would be

nothing less than the loss of Randolph Abbey." As he said this he bent

his eyes with the most ardent gaze on Lilias, that he might read to her

inmost soul the effect of his speech; but it needed not so keen a

scrutiny; the indignation with which it had filled her sent the color

flying to her cheek, and kindled a fire in her clear eyes seldom seen

within them.

"And who," she exclaimed, "could dare withhold their due tribute of

charity and sympathy to a suffering fellow-creature for the sake of the

fairest lands that ever the world saw! who could be so base, for the

love of his own interest, as to pander to an unjust hatred, the evil

passion of another, and join with the oppressor in persecuting one who

is guiltless of all save deep misfortune! Can there be any such?" she

added, in her turn fixing her gaze upon Gabriel. A triumphant smile

passed over his lips; her answer seemed precisely what he had hoped it

would be; but Walter anxiously exclaimed:

"Pray do me the justice to believe that I would not act so, Lilias; I

never should have thought of the motive Gabriel assigned as a reason for

not visiting Hubert; but, to tell the truth, I have no desire to do so,

because I believe him, from all I have heard, to be a poor morbid

visionary, who desires nothing so much as solitude, and with whom I

should not have an idea in common."

"Nor should I be deterred from showing him any kindness for this reason,

I trust," said Gabriel, with his meekest voice; "I merely wished to

place you in possession of facts with which I thought it right you

should be acquainted in case Hubert should afford you the opportunity of

intercourse which he has not granted to us; for it is one of the noble

traits of his fine character, that he will not risk our incurring Sir

Michael's displeasure for his sake. He is the more generous in this,

that, from his relationship to our uncle, he would be heir-at-law after

us four. But in fact I believe there exists not a more high-minded and

amiable man than he is, in no sense meriting the misfortunes that have

fallen upon him; and his dignified, unmurmuring endurance of them could

never be attributed to insensibility, for he is singularly gifted; his

wonderful musical talent is the least of his powers."

"Why, Gabriel," said Walter, looking round in great surprise, "I never

heard you say so much in praise of Hubert before;--or, indeed, of any

one," he added, _sotto voce_.

"I know him, perhaps, better than you do," said Gabriel, watching, with

delight the softened expression of Lilias's face, which proved to him

how artfully his words had been calculated to produce the effect he

desired. He read in her thoughtful eyes, as easily as he would have done

in a page of fair writing, how she was quietly determining in that hour

that she would seek by every means in her power to become the friend of

this unfortunate man, and teach him how sweet a solace there may be even

in human sympathy, and that, all the more, because her worldly

prospects would be endangered thereby. It would prove to Hubert that her

friendship had at least the merit of sincerity, since, in her humility,

she imagined it could possess no other;--but Gabriel had no time to say

more, for Sir Michael at this moment joined them, and Lilias, rising up,

said she believed it was late, and turned to go into the other

drawing-room. Sir Michael looked sharply at the trio, and, as Walter

followed his cousin, he turned to Gabriel with considerable irritation--

"How came you here, sir; I left those two together?"

"They invited me to join them, or I should not have intruded," said

Gabriel, with his customary meekness, but a smile curled his lips, which

he could not repress. Sir Michael saw and understood it at once; he

paused for a moment in thought, and then deciding, apparently like

Walter, that it was no use to conceal any thing from Gabriel, and more

advantageous to be open with him at once, he said--

"Gabriel, understand me, if your quick eyes have divined any of my

plans, it will work you no good to thwart them."

"But, possibly, it might avail me were I to further them," said the

nephew, very softly.

"It might," said Sir Michael; "the broad lands of Randolph Abbey could,

with little loss, furnish a handsome compensation to the person who

should assist me in placing therein, the heirs I desire to choose."

Gabriel's reply was merely a significant look of acquiescence, and the

old man, bestowing on him a smile of approbation such as he had never

before vouchsafed him, went away well pleased. He was firmly convinced

that he had enlisted in support of the plan that was already a favorite

one with him, the individual amongst all his heirs who he was the most

positively resolved should never inherit the Abbey, both because he

rather disliked him personally, and because he could not forgive him his

mother's low birth. Could he have seen the sneer with which Gabriel

looked after him, he would have been somewhat unpleasantly enlightened

as to the real value of the ally he had obtained.

VI. THE DEAD FATHER IS MADE THE PERSECUTOR OF THE LIVING SON.

Very strange was the contrast between the splendid drawing-room, blazing

with light and heat, where the Randolph family were assembled, and the

small room in the other wing of the house which was occupied by Hubert

Lyle. It contained barely the furniture necessary for his use, and this

was by his own desire, for it was already sufficiently bitter to him to

eat the bread dealt out so grudgingly, and at least he would not be

beholden to his stepfather for more than the actual necessaries of

existence.

Sorely against his proud mother's wish, he had chosen for his

sitting-room one of the very meanest and poorest in the house, with a

single window, low and narrow, which looked out on a deserted part of

the grounds. Hubert liked it all the better for this, as there was no

flower-garden or green-house near to bring the head-gardener, with his

trim, mathematical mind, amongst the wild beauties of nature. The grass

was left in this part to come up against the very wall of the house, and

the ivy and honeysuckle which grew round the window were allowed to

penetrate almost into the room. Fortunately, the noble trees which

filled the park stood somewhat apart in this place, and their arching

branches formed at this moment a sort of framework to the most glorious

picture that ever is given to mortal eyes to look upon--the lucid sky of

night, filled as it were to overflowing with radiant worlds, each

hanging in its own atmosphere of glory.

It was no wonder that Hubert turned from the low, dark room, so dimly

lit with its single candle, to look upon this the bright landscape of

the skies. Within, the scene was certainly uninviting. The heavy deal

table, the scanty supply of chairs, the plain writing-desk, evidently

many years in use, were the only objects on which the eye could rest,

excepting a few books and a small piano, the gift of Aletheia, with

which, greatly to his astonishment, she had presented him one day--for

she was as completely a stranger to him as she was to all the rest of

the family, and had always avoided intercourse with him as much as she

did with every one else. This thoughtful act of kindness on her part,

however, produced no increased acquaintance between them, as she shrank

from hearing his expressions of gratitude on that occasion, and, indeed,

they seldom met. Aletheia was never in Lady Randolph's rooms, where

alone Hubert was to be met, excepting at rare intervals, when Sir

Michael was absent.

Hubert sat now at the window; he had laid down his heavy head upon the

wooden ledge, and his hands fell listlessly on his knee. He seemed full

of anxious thoughts, and sighed very deeply more than once. From time to

time, apparently with a violent effort, he looked up and gazed fixedly

on the tranquil stars, seeming to drink in their pure glory, as though

he sought to steep his soul in this light of higher spheres; but ever a

sort of trembling passed over his frame, and he would sink down again

oppressed and weary. This was most unlike Hubert Lyle's usual condition.

He was a man of the most ardent and sensitive feelings; but, at the

same, possessed of that moral strength and _truthfulness of soul_ which

can only belong to a great character--by this last expression, we mean

that he was what few are in this world, neither a deceiver nor deceived.

He did not deceive himself in any case, nor would he allow life to

deceive him; he saw things as they really were, and he permitted not the

bright coloring of hope or imagination to deck them with false apparel;

he did not live as most men do, figuring to himself that he was as it

were the centre of the universe, and that all around him thought of him

and felt for him as he did for himself. He weighed himself in the

balance not of his own self-love, but of other men's judgment, and rated

himself accordingly. Thus, in the earlier days of his maturity, he

constrained his spirit to rise up and look his position in the face. And

truly it was one which might have appalled a less feeling heart than

his.

His outward circumstances were as bitter as could well be to a

high-minded man. He was a dependent on the grudging charity of one who

abhorred him; and though he would right thankfully have gone out from

these inhospitable doors, even to starve, in preference, yet was he

bound to endure existence within them, by a promise which his mother had

extorted from him as a condition of their marriage, that he never would

leave Randolph Abbey without her consent. This marriage he knew was to

save her from a blighting penury which was killing her; and, moreover,

she concealed from him that cruel hatred of Sir Michael, which was the

only heritage his dead father left him, and, thinking no evil, he had

given them the promise which bound him as with an iron chain to abide

under the roof of his unprovoked enemy. But heavier even than unjust

hatred was the weight upon soul and body of his own deformity; for if

the first shut up one human heart from him, and turned its power of

affection to gall for his sake, the other cast him out for ever from the

love of all human kind. He knew that his unsightly frame could call

forth no other feeling from them but a cold, most often a contemptuous

pity.

And yet, when he looked out into the world--the dark, tumultuous,

agonizing world--that very sea of human hearts, all beating up upon the

stony shores of a life, against which they are for ever broken and

shattered, he saw passing through the midst of it all a soft, pure

light, shedding warmth and brightness even on the dreariest scenes, and

causing men to forget all pain, and privation, and misery--a light to

which the saddest eyes turned with a joyous greeting, and on which the

gaze of the dying lingered mournfully, till the coffin-lid for ever shut

it out from their fond longing. And he knew that this one blessed thing,

which could overcome the strong, fierce evils of life, like the maid in

the pride of her purity, before whom the lion would turn and flee, was

called Human Love in the doting hearts of men--Human Love--the one sole,

unfailing joy of our merely mortal existence. And was it for him? Should

he ever have any share in it? Was its sweetness ever to be for his

hungry and thirsty heart? Never! The seal was set upon him in his

repulsive appearance, that he was to be an outcast from his fellow-men;

his deformity was as a burden bound upon his back, with which he was

driven out into the wilderness, there to abide in utter solitude of

soul. The promise of life was abortive for him ere yet he had begun it.

Hubert Lyle understood all this at once; he saw how it stood with him,

and how it was to be, on to the very door of the grave; so he folded his

hands upon his breast and bowed down his head; he accepted his destiny,

for he felt that this was not the all of existence. He knew how

strangely sweet beyond the tomb shall seem all the bitterness of this

life; he saw that the earth was to be to his soul what it is to the

outward eyes on a starry winter's night. We know what a contrast there

is in that hour between the world above and the world below: the one

lies so dark and cold, full only of black shadows and the howling of

mournful winds, while the lucid sky that overhangs it, replete with

brightness and glory, teems with radiant stars, which are the type of

those eternal and glorious hopes that cluster for us on the outskirts of

the heaven of revelation. And so it was to be for him: his spirit was to

walk in this world as in a bleak and sunless desert; but it was to be

for ever canopied over with one bright and boundless thought, wherein

were set immutable and numberless, the starlike hopes of one eternity.

Thus was he to live, wholly independent of earth, and indifferent to it.

But no man can walk free while there are chains upon his hands and feet,

and he felt that he was bound to his fellow-creatures by two ropes, as

it were, of iron: the longing to love, and to be beloved. Of these he

must free himself, tearing them off his shrinking flesh as a prisoner

would his manacles. And he did so. He taught himself to look upon all

human beings as not of his kind. Even when every nerve and fibre in his

frame cried out that they were bone of his bone and flesh of his flesh,

he learned to consider them inaccessible for him as the angels in

heaven. Yes, even far more; for he trusted that yet a little while, and

these holy ones should be his dear companions; and so he held communion

with them now. But with men he dared not hazard so much as to give them

a place in his thoughts, for he knew that the dream of their friendship

would become the longing for it, and the longing in his case must turn

to agony; so it came to pass that his strong will, his stern

resignation, compassed that which one might have believed well nigh

unattainable to flesh and blood. He divested himself of all earthly

inclinations and desires, all natural wishes and sympathies, and lived

in this world as though he were utterly alone in it, and sole

representative of a race, differing from those angelic friends whom only

he consented to know as the living population of the universe--a

solitary being placed on this earth as in a desert place, where he was

commanded, for his own needful discipline, to abide, till the world of

spirits should be revealed to him, and he entering there should find a

home and loving friends.

It was for this cause that Hubert shunned all intercourse with the

Randolph family, as he did with all others--a resolution strengthened in

their case by the generous motives Gabriel had assigned to him; for

whatever might have been the reasons of this latter for pronouncing his

eulogium, he had said no more than the truth in his account of his

character.

When Hubert Lyle had gone through the mental process we have detailed,

very deep was the calm that entered into his soul. It became like the

pure waters of a deep still well, walled in and protected from all

sights and sounds of the world without, and with the light and the glory

of heaven alone mirrored within it.

And why, then, was the quiet now gone from his heart, and the repose

from his eyes? Why did he look up with that earnest gaze to the evening

sky, as though some shadow had come over its brightness? It was because

the terror had come upon him, that the greatest enemy he ever could know

in this life was about to rise up from its deathlike torpor and assail

him--even his own human nature; he felt that all those natural feelings

and passions which he had crushed down deep into his heart as unto a

grave, were now stirring themselves like men that had been buried alive,

and were waking in torture; they _would_ live, they were bursting the

cerements of that strong heart. How were they to be beaten to death

again? There--rampant and fierce was the craving for sympathy, for love.

There, sickening in its intensity, was the yearning to give and to

receive that greatest of earthly gifts, the blessing of a mutual pure

affection; the heart moulded from dust reasserted its birthright, and

cried out for its kindred dust. It was not that these feelings were as

yet at work with any definite object within Hubert Lyle, it was but the

shadow and the prophecy of them that lay upon him, like a thick cloud

charged with lightning.

And all this had been done by the murmur of one voice, one sweet voice,

speaking in the accents of that tender sympathy which never before had

sounded in the cold, joyless region of his life, whispering hope to him.

He was not so mad as to love Lilias Randolph, whom he had seen but for

one half-hour, but her tenderness, her generous, loving kindness, had

aroused the slumbering nature within him, and he felt that were he much

in contact with one so pure, so gentle, so noble, as she seemed to him,

he might come to love. Oh! how madly, how miserably to love! he, the

deformed cripple! Was not this a frenzy against which he had armed all

the powers of his being? what tyrant, what enemy could be more fearful

to him than an earthly love? what would it do for him but crush and

torture him, and hold up far off the cup of this world's joy, where his

parched lips could not reach, and he dying of thirst? Was it a

presentiment that made him feel as if the spirit he had so chained down

were rebelling against him, and required but the master-touch of some

kindly and winning child of earth to abandon itself to unutterable

madness? But, at all events, whatever were the source of this terror

which had come upon him, whether it were a foreshadowing of future evil,

or the warning of his good angel, it cannot pass unheeded. He must, with

a strong will, compel his spirit to realize in all the bitterness of

detail the truth of his exile from mankind, his needful isolation, as

decreed by the seal of that deformity which made him an unsightly object

in their eyes.

He would force himself to remember that the music of human voices,

however softly they might greet him, must be for him like those melodies

of nature when wind and stream make the air musical, to which we listen

with pleasure, but in which we have no part; and the aspect of goodness

and gentleness, so lovely in the fallen child of Adam, must be to him

like the light of a star shining far off in regions unattainable. Yet,

while he felt within himself the courage thus to act, were he brought in

contact again with her, whose sweet face had come beaming in so

strangely on the darkness of his perpetual solitude, his very soul

shrank from the struggle, and the longing so often before experienced to

quit this house, where he was so unwelcome, returned upon him with

redoubled force.

Whilst he was still sitting thinking on these things, his head resting

on his clasped hands, there was a sound of rustling silks in the

passage--the door opened, a measured, stately step went through the

room, and Lady Randolph stood by the side of her deformed son. He looked

up.

"Dear mother, I am so glad you have come, I was wishing at this very

moment to speak to you."

There was an expression of displeasure and annoyance on her beautiful

face as she looked at him.

"It cost me no small effort to come, I can tell you, Hubert; it is so

wretched to find you here in this miserable room, with every thing so

mean and neglected round you. You seem ever to do what you can to render

your own appearance uninviting, crouching down there with your matted

hair and melancholy face."

There was little of the accents of love in these words, and a slight

shiver seemed to agitate the frame of Hubert as he felt at that moment

that he was repulsive even to the mother who bore him; but he lifted his

dark gray eyes to her face with the sweet, patient smile which filled

his countenance at times with a spiritual beauty, and said gently:

"I did not expect you at this hour, or I should have tried to make both

my little den and myself look more cheerful in your honor."

There was something in his expression which touched with an intense

power a never-slumbering memory. She flung her arms round his neck and

bent over him.

"Oh, my Henry--my Henry--it was his eyes that looked at me just now, as

they have often looked in their tenderness, for ever perished--his eyes

that I kissed in death with my poor heart broken--broken--as it is to

this day--his eyes sealed up now with the horrible clog of his deep

grave--oh, my Henry--my Henry--come back to me!"

She pressed the head of her son close to her beating heart and wept. He

waited till she was more composed; then, gently disengaging himself, he

made her sit down beside him, and held her hand in both his own.

"Dear mother," he said very gently, "it is my father whom you love in me

and not myself; when I do not wear this passing likeness of him, which

at times only draws your heart to me, there remains nothing in myself to

win your affections, and you do not love me."

"It is true," she answered calmly; "living I loved him only--dead, it is

his memory alone which I adore."

"Then I think you cannot refuse the prayer I have to make to you this

day," said Hubert, not the least flush of indignation tinging his pale

cheek at this unfeeling announcement; "I think it cannot in truth be any

pleasure to you to see in me the marred and hateful resemblance of that

which was so beautiful, and so dear; better surely to feed on his image

pure and unchanged in the depths of your heart, and never have it

brought so painfully before you in my miserable person." He paused a

moment whilst she looked wondering at him, and then, suddenly, he

exclaimed, with a passionate burst of feeling, "Mother, let me go--let

me go--from this house, where my presence is abhorred by some and sought

by none; nothing has kept me here but my fatal promise to you: I would I

had died ere I made it; but it will cost you nothing to part from me,

and you know not what it may cost me to stay here; it is cruel to keep

me--let me go."

"Let you go! Hubert think what you are saying, you would go to starve!"

"It matters not! better so than to live on here. Mother, you would have

had no power to detain me in this place but for that rash promise; not

even your wishes should have kept me. I beseech you release me from it."

"Never!"

He almost writhed as she spoke, yet he went on--

"Do not keep me because you fancy I should starve; no man does who has

energy and perseverance. I have a head and hands to labor with, and how

far sweeter were the worst of toil than the bitter bread of charity."

"But do you know," said Lady Randolph almost fiercely, "that I could not

give you the means of buying that bread one day, I am so utterly in Sir

Michael's power. He succeeded in laying hold of me because I was

poverty-stricken beyond what flesh and blood could bear, and now by the

same means he binds me down; he never has relaxed his hold; every thing

is his; I could not command a shilling. These very baubles with which he

loads me are not my own." And she tore the bracelets from her arms and

flung them down. "He calls them family jewels on purpose to keep me to

the veriest trifle in his power.

"Mother, mother," exclaimed Hubert, "do you think, though he placed the

wealth of millions in your hands, that I would not rather perish than

touch it; it is too much already that I have been so long indebted to

him for the roof that shelters me; but I do not fear that I could gain

enough for my own living, if only you will let me go from this Egyptian

bondage."

"Hubert, what is it that has excited you in this manner? I never saw you

so unlike yourself; you are usually so calm and so enduring. Was it your

unfortunate meeting with Sir Michael last night? Was he more than

usually insulting?"

"No, it was not that," said Hubert gently. "I am so used to his bitter

words that I could not feel more pained than I have ever been; but it

matters not that you should be wearied with the detail of all the

thoughts that have made me at this time so desirous to leave Randolph

Abbey; dear mother, let it suffice you that I do implore you to release

me from my promise."

"Hubert, I tell you NO a thousand times. I will not see you starved to

death for any Quixotic fancy; and, besides, do you think any power on

this earth would induce me to gratify my worst enemy, my life-long

enemy, whom chiefly I hate because he has the power to call me

_wife_--that dear name I so loved to hear from the beloved lips that are

choked up with dust? Do you think I would gratify him by giving him that

which he has labored for, by the persecution of my own dearest husband,

even to the death, and of myself to worse than death, a life with him?

Do you know that the one thing he has always desired has been to obtain

possession of me without having you for ever before his eyes as the

living monument of that buried love which was his torturer, and to which

I am faithful still? And do you think that to brighten even your life,

much less to peril it, I would grant him this his heart's desire, and

put it out of my power to show him, in every caress I lavish upon you,

my poor deformed son, how I adored your father?"

Hubert let her hand fall, and his features assumed an expression of

severity.

"Mother, forgive me that as your son I venture to judge you; but this is

unworthy, most unworthy."

She seemed almost awed by his rebuke, but hastily throwing her arms

round him, she said more gently:

"Hubert, forgive me; but I cannot--cannot part with you, the last

shattered fragment of my ruined happiness. You do not know what it is to

me to see you; to hear your voice coming to me like an echo from the

grave, telling of departed love; to find in your eyes at times a glance

as from the light of the past. It was such joy, such deep, deep joy when

he lived, and my happiness was hid in his true heart, that often I think

I never, never could have been so blest: and in truth that it is all a

dream, too unutterably sweet to have been true; life seems to faint

within me at that thought, for it is something to feel, barren and

desolate as my existence is now, that I _have_ loved and been loved as

once I was; and, Hubert, it is your presence alone that makes all this

reality to me. His kiss has been upon your lips--his voice has called

you his dear son. Ah! take not from me those last relics of him."

She laid her head upon his breast in a passion of weeping. He raised her

tenderly, and said with a calm voice:

"Mother, it is not my vocation in this world to give pain to others for

the sake of my own will or pleasure: take comfort, I will never more

trouble you concerning this matter; I will not ask again to leave you."

Silently she pressed her lips to his forehead, and then, as if ashamed

that even her own son should have seen her so moved, she rose up without

speaking and left the room.

FOOTNOTES:

[8] Continued from page 387.

From Bentley's Miscellany.

SEQUEL TO THE JEWISH HEROINE.

A magnificent saloon, dazzling with oriental splendor, and brilliant

with Arabic decorations, was allotted to Sol's reception; and there she

was immediately attended by six Moorish damsels, who came to receive her

orders. Fatigued by the length of her journey, and covered with the dust

of the road, she begged for water to refresh herself, and a room where

she might repose. Scarcely were the words pronounced when she beheld

around her vessels of silver, brought to her by six other damsels,

clothed in white, and offering her that for which she had asked with

respect and humility. They brought her clothes of the finest cambric,

fragrant essences of Arabia, and exquisitely-worked garments of divers

colors, and of the highest value, all of which the humble Sol rejected,

scarcely accepting from them even those things which were indispensable

to her, and declining to change her dress. But one of the ladies of the

court, seeing this, told her that she had received orders to clothe her

according to the custom of the country, for which purpose she had

collected together these garments for her choice. Sol, nevertheless,

after expressing her gratitude, endeavored to excuse herself, but the

request was pressed upon her with so much urgency, that she found it

impossible to decline; and, at length, among the many varieties of dress

prepared for her express use, selected one of a black hue, bordered with

white, as indicative of the sadness of her heart; when, after a place of

rest had been pointed out to her, she was left alone.

All the women who had been employed about the young Hebrew repeated to

the wives of the imperial prince the warmest praises of her extreme

beauty and amiability. The emperor himself visited the house of his son,

and inquiring with minute curiosity into all the incidents that have

been related, and listening with delight to the praises heaped upon his

young captive, he renewed his commands that she should be treated with

gentleness, that every thing which could flatter her sight, or gratify

her wishes, should be given her, and that nothing should be denied her

by which her mind could be favorably impressed previously to the

interview which he proposed to have with her on the day

following,--saying, as he departed, that the moment of her conversion by

his means would be an epoch in his life, which he would mark by the most

princely magnificence to all that had contributed to it. All promised

the most punctual compliance with the commands of the emperor and the

prince, and all vied with one another in inventing every expedient to

effect the object which the most subtle arts could have recourse to.

During the night the wearied maiden slept profoundly, while the Moorish

women in attendance watched her in silence, anxious not to disturb her

slumbers, and not venturing to move from their posts.

Morning dawned at last. The nightingale, the goldfinch, and the

swift-flying bunting, announced the rising of the orb of day; the

flowers unclosed their buds in the transparent morning ray, wafting

forth their delicious odors, and perfuming with their fragrance the

tranquil abode where breathed this innocent and lovely maiden. This

abode was within a small gallery, decorated with crystal; and surrounded

by vast shrubberies of the laurel, cypress, and myrtle, whose dark

foliage mingled with the fragrant boughs of the citron and lemon.

Through occasional vistas might be remarked, amid these labyrinths of

eternal green, the deep mulberry-colored branches of the towering

spice-tree, while the rose, the jessamine, and the mallow, crowned the

raised terraces in sweet luxuriance, seeming to vie with the tall

cassia, and darkening the bowers where the sunlight had been allowed to

penetrate by the abundance of their white and crimson bloom. The

blue-bell, the white lily, and the lily of the valley, blossomed

beneath, shedding their perfume on the lower earth, as though too lowly

to mingle with the clouds of fragrance emitted by the loftier plants,

above which in their turn the ambitious woodbine exalted its gay

festoons; and in the more distant shades of the garden, the green sward

spread a soft and variegated carpet over the ground, spangled with

plants of the dwarf violet, and aromatic spikenard. It was upon these

scenes that the eyes of the fair Hebrew unclosed, after her long and

profound sleep. So fair a sight filled her with a tranquil and serene

pleasure; the warbling of the singing birds that fluttered amid the

branches around her, or flew here and there amid the flowery mazes of

the garden, were heard with delight, and while she watched them she

envied them their liberty.

It was with surprise and admiration that the young Jewess examined the

embellishments of this gallery, which were, indeed, a triumph of art and

ingenuity. Again and again did she admire it, reclining on her couch.

One of the Moorish ladies, seeing her attention thus engaged, addressed

her, with an affectionate salutation. Sol replied in accents of

kindness, and entered into conversation with her, speaking with innocent

admiration of the picturesque beauty of the landscape she beheld from

this gallery.

A black slave, clothed in white, came to give notice to Sol that the

kaidmia[9] waited to receive her. With haste, therefore, she took leave

of the Moorish ladies, and placed herself under the conduct of that

officer. She was at once conducted into the presence of the emperor, who

received her in a magnificent hall, sitting on an ottoman of crimson

velvet, richly fringed with gold. Opposite to him was a cushion, which

he desired the young Hebrew to occupy, and commanded his slaves to serve

_esfa_,[10] and tea with the herb _luisa_.[11] Having thus, by every

demonstration of kindness and affability, prepared her to converse with

him--the emperor told Sol, he had long since heard of her mental

acquirements and talents, and was not ignorant of the arguments she had

used in the palace of his son, nor of her obstinate refusal to embrace

the Law of the Prophet; but that he looked upon that merely as a morbid

feeling of her mind, arising from delusion, and trusted that when _he_

should have argued awhile with her, she would not long continue in her

present opinion.

"Thou art called Sol," proceeded the emperor, "is it not so?"

The young Jewess replied in the affirmative.

"Well, then, beloved Sol," said he, "I have prepared a boon beyond all

the powers of thine imagination to conceive. Since first I heard of thy

beauty and virtue from Arbi Esid, the governor of Tangier, I decided

that thou shouldst become the enchantress of my court. I saw thee enter

Fez; and was delighted with all I saw; I heard thee speak in the palace

of my son, and was charmed with all I heard. I was beside thee, though

unseen, and I rejoiced with the Prophet, over so fair a captive. This

morning, while thou wast conversing upon the state of men by birth, I

was in the garden; the Tolva,[12] who accompanied me, said to me, 'this

Jewess will indeed be a noble Mahometan!' At that moment, I had decided

to reward thy beauty by giving thee in marriage to my nephew,--a

handsome, rich, and brave youth; I had determined to bestow upon thee a

diamond, whose value exceeds all the riches that any prince can possess;

see, beautiful Sol, these are indeed gifts worthy to be appreciated, and

thou wilt not, I am certain, disappoint me."

"My lord," replied Sol, "I must confess, that in my present condition,

nothing can attract or fix my attention: and my mind is tormented by the

remembrance of my parents and of my brother."

"Thy parents and thy brother," said the emperor, "shall be sent for

immediately after thy recantation."

"Say, rather," exclaimed Sol, "after my death, for never can I become a

Mahometan!"

"Innocent creature!" said the emperor, "who has urged you to this

temerity? Reflect but for an instant; then consider if you would

renounce my favor, and embrace Death as an alternative! Resolve quickly;

or I would even grant delay, if you desire it."

"My Lord," said Sol, "I am well aware that you have distinguished me in

a manner of which I am undeserving; the offers that you have made me

are, indeed, worthy of so great a prince; but I, a miserable Jewess,

cannot accept them. I have determined never to change my creed; if this

resolve should merit death, I will patiently submit; order, then, my

execution, and the God of justice, knowing my innocence, will avenge my

blood."

"Unhappy girl!" exclaimed the emperor; "you were not born to be so

beautiful, yet so unfortunate! From this moment I abandon you: my pride

forbids me to persuade you further; yet I leave you with sorrow--the

laws of my realm must judge you, and already I foresee that your blood

will be poured out upon the earth!"

So speaking, and casting a compassionate glance upon Sol, the monarch

departed with a measured and thoughtful step.

The afflicted Sol remained immovable, but gave way to a torrent of

tears. Before long the kaidmia appeared and desired her to follow him,

which she did without opposition. The emperor, although he had decreed

that the cadi, as superior judge of the law, should try her cause, had

urged upon him to withhold the extreme penalties of the law till every

means had been tried that persuasion and mildness could suggest. To the

house of this magistrate she was now conducted, with this especial

recommendation from the emperor, in consequence of which, instead of

being sent to the prison, a room in the cadi's own house was set apart

for her, where he could be near her continually, and frequently engage

her in conversation; yet all these marks of kindness did the young Sol

receive as part of her martyrdom, and now thought on nothing but death,

as the means of her wished-for release.

The Jew who had accompanied the captive maiden at the request of her

parents, had written news of all these events to Tangier. In Fez they

excited a very great sensation; and, especially among the resident Jews,

who showed their interest in all that passed whenever they could do so

without injuring the success of the means devised to save the victim, of

which they never lost sight for a moment. But they were now, although

they knew it not, engaged in a hopeless undertaking; for the Moors had

entered into a compact, having for its object the conversion of Sol, and

from this there was no escape. The cadi, a zealous servant of the

emperor, conducted his task with masterly subtlety; six hours were

almost daily occupied by him in arguments and entreaties to the young

Jewess; but all was vain, the steadfast maiden, firm in her resolution,

adhered to the law of her fathers, and listened with reluctance to all

the exhortations of the cadi. He admired her fortitude of spirit, while

he pitied her fate, knowing that unless she became a proselyte, her

sentence must inevitably be pronounced. In order to hasten the crisis,

however, he concerted a scheme to surprise her into a decision by which

she might either escape, or fall into his snare.[13]

One morning early, after nine days had been spent in useless persuasion,

the cadi entered the apartment of Sol: "My daughter," said he, "I bring

you news of consolation; I, that have beheld you with eyes of

compassion, that would weep over your death as for that of a daughter,

have sought the Jajamins[14] of your creed; with them I have considered

your present position; they assure me that your fear of forfeiting the

glories which are to come, which causes you to reject the laws of the

Prophet, is groundless; they ensure you that future glory, on the word

of their conscience, provided that your life is not thus forfeited. I

wish the emperor to remain unacquainted with the step I have thus taken

for your sole benefit, my dear daughter, and from motives of kindness

and affection only. You will be visited by the Jajamins, who will repeat

what you now hear from my lips; and thus, convinced of the truth, you

will give me the delight of your conversion, and of your rescue from

death. But I perceive you are but little affected by this news!"

Sol had not ceased, during this conversation, to regard the cadi with a

serious expression of countenance, which very clearly indicated the

state of mental vacillation produced by his words; nevertheless, she

answered only, that she was beyond measure anxious to speak to the

Jajamins, on whose judgment would probably depend her final

determination.

Now this plot, so far from being undertaken without the knowledge of the

emperor, had been concerted between himself and the cadi; and by his

desire the latter informed the Jajamins, that unless they succeeded in

the conversion of the young Hebrew, she would suffer death, and they

would be exposed to the emperor's rigorous displeasure. This threat

produced the desired effect upon the Jajamins, who came to Sol prepared

by every means in their power to change her resolution.

On the ensuing day, when she received their visit, they professed to her

their wish to console her in her affliction, and to hear from her own

lips the reasons why she had negatived the urgent wishes of the emperor;

adding, that this mission was a part of their duty, to which they much

desired to conform.

The beautiful Jewess listened with attention to this exordium; and

replied, though with many sighs, in the following terms:--"God, who was

concealed from our view by the dense cloud which no human sight could

penetrate, delivered the Tables of the Law to Moses on the Mountain of

the Desert. He prompts my heart to remain faithful to those laws,

imposed on the people of Israel. More than once have I read in those

sacred books of the horrible persecutions endured by the Israelites who

violated that law; I have studied the prophecies of our Patriarchs, and

have observed their gradual fulfilment. Mahomet was but a false

innovator, a renegade from the primitive law;[15] neither to his laws

nor to the future pleasures of his paradise, can I lend an ear; faithful

to my own rites, the name of the only true God remains engraven on my

heart; to whom Abraham offered his son Isaac in sacrifice; and I, a

daughter of Abraham, would make sacrifice of my life to the same God. He

ordains fidelity, and I will keep His commandments as a faithful Hebrew

ought to keep them. Can any one on earth oppose the decree written by

the right hand of the Most High?"

The Jajamins listened attentively to the reasons of the youthful Sol,

and urged, in reply, arguments full of hope; but perceiving that Sol,

with an indescribable firmness, set these all aside, one of them at

length addressed her as follows: "Our law imposes on us, as a duty,

after God, to respect the king. The king's will is that you should wear

the turban; and his will is sacred upon earth. I dare not advise

otherwise, for I should then lift up my counsel against the law of the

country that gives us a home. Besides, there are certain circumstances

of human life which are of such exigency, that the God of Abraham looks

upon them with leniency and toleration. As, for instance, young maiden,

the unforeseen and impending danger of your present situation. You have

parents--a brother; Jews, in great numbers, reside in this vast empire;

and all these will, on your account, be exiled, persecuted, and

ill-used. While, on the contrary, your conversion will not only liberate

yourself from death, but will avert these threatening ills to them, and

will bring down upon them honors and privileges; and we will, in the

name of God, insure your future glory, and save your conscience, by

taking on ourselves the responsibility of the act."

The young Jewess listened in expressive silence, but without any visible

emotion, to the foregoing address. At the close of it she arose, and

expressed herself thus:

"I respect your words, wise men of our faith; but if our laws impose

respect--after God, to the king--the king cannot violate the precepts of

the One God. I am resolved to sacrifice my life on the altar of my

faith. To myself only can this resolve be fatal: my parents and kindred

will be strengthened, and protected, and freed from the fury of that

fanaticism by which I suffer. I will not, even in outward appearance,

accede to the terms proposed. I will lay down my head to receive the axe

of the executioner, and the remembrance of my death and constancy will

excite only remorse in those who have oppressed me. Pardon me, if I have

offended you; and, I pray you, tell my parents that they live in my

heart. Entreat the cadi to molest me by no further importunities. My

determination is fixed, and all further attempts to shake it will be

vain."

The tone of firmness in which she spoke convinced the jajamins that

there was no hope; and they left her, overwhelmed with surprise.

The cadi, who had listened to the whole conference from another

apartment, went to meet the anxious and unsuccessful jajamins.

"I know all," said he; "I have heard every thing. Your mission is

fulfilled, and I shall report your fidelity to the emperor. Fear

nothing, therefore, but rely upon my word."

He then dismissed them, and going at once to his office, he took the

papers that related to the cause of the young Sol, and added to them a

transcript of her late contumelious expressions respecting the Law of

the Prophet, which he represented as being blasphemed by her, and

sentenced her, in consequence, to public execution. He next repaired to

the palace of the emperor, and after reporting to him the result of the

late conference with the jajamins, he handed to him the sentence of

death. The emperor was much moved, and showed symptoms of surprise and

concern.

"How!" said he; "is there no remedy? Must this Jewess die?"

"My lord," answered the cadi, "by the law she stands condemned; and

there is no remedy."

"Well, then," said the emperor, "but one more hope remains. I command

that preparations for the execution be made with the utmost publicity;

that all the troops of Fez, and at the intermediate stations, be

assembled, and that nothing may be omitted which can make the spectacle

an imposing one. Let her be awe-stricken; let her even be partially

wounded before her head be finally severed. Perchance the sight of her

own blood, flowing down, may produce some effect upon her, and we may,

at the last moment, accomplish her conversion by intimidation. Leave me;

I am sorely displeased at the fate of this young Hebrew--lovely as her

name. And, mark me, strain every point, neglect nothing. We may yet gain

her over. Alas! may Ala protect her!" And the emperor turned away with

manifest signs of heavy displeasure.

The cadi well perceived how greatly his royal master was grieved at the

idea of Sol's death: but there was now no remedy. The law, barbarous and

unjust as it was, was final; and her death was, therefore, inevitable.

Before her execution, nevertheless, he paid her a final visit, when he

found her kneeling in prayer, and displayed to her the writ of

execution.

"Behold," said he, "your sentence. Your head will roll on the ground,

and the dust of the earth shall be dyed with your blood. Your tomb shall

be covered with maledictions, and amidst them will your last end be

remembered. Yet, fair Sol, there is a remedy; think yet upon it.

To-morrow, at this very hour, I will return, either to present you,

crowned with the jessamine flowers, to the emperor, or to lead you to

your death."

With these words he departed, leaving the young Hebrew still in the

position in which he had found her upon his entrance, and from which she

stirred not, but remained in a contemplative ecstasy commending her soul

fervently to her Creator.

It was soon publicly known in Fez that the day approached when the

beautiful young Jewess was to be beheaded for blaspheming the name of

the Prophet. The Moors, whose religious fanaticism is great beyond

comparison, looked upon this execution as an occasion for rejoicings.

The Jews, powerless to remedy it, were overcome by the deepest feelings

of despondency: unwilling to remain entirely passive, they commenced a

subscription, ready to be invested in any way that might best suit the

emergency. The parents and relations, who were in Tangier, whose efforts

to save this beloved victim would have been unavailing, even had they

been capable of devising any means for her rescue, were plunged into

despair; their hopes had suffered shipwreck upon the rock of a

relentless fatality, and they, like the young maiden herself, had no

consolation but those imparted from heaven. The afflicted Sol spent the

whole day in meditation, she refused all food, and looked anxiously for

the hour which would end her life. That fatal hour arrived at length.

With a trembling step, the cadi entered her apartment, and found her, as

before, in prayer. He was much agitated, and could speak to her only

with the utmost difficulty. At length he said:--

"Sol--beautiful Sol! the arbiters of life and death may meet together.

Behold me here! Know you wherefore I am come?"

"I do know it," replied the maiden.

"And have you determined upon your fate?" asked the cadi.

Rising from the ground, and with firmness, Sol answered:--"I have

determined. Lead me to the place where I am to shed my blood."

"Unhappy girl!" said the cadi, "never, till my death, will thine image

leave my memory!" He then desired a soldier to handcuff and lead her to

the prison.

The authorities of Fez, at the emperor's desire, having determined to

give the scene as much publicity as possible, resolved that the

execution should take place upon the Soco--a large square in Fez, where

the market is held. The previous day, too, having been one of the weekly

market days, when the concourse of persons was always very considerable,

the news had circulated far and wide, and but little else was talked of.

Very early in the morning, a strong picquet of soldiers had been posted

on the Soco, in order to excite attention, and attract more spectators;

but so numerous was the crowd that this precaution was scarcely

necessary. The Jews who resided in Fez, when they saw that hope was at

an end, went to the emperor and proffered the large sum they had

collected, as was previously stated, in exchange for the permission to

inter the remains of the young Sol after her execution; to which the

emperor offered no opposition.

The dreadful moment had now arrived, when the fair victim was to be

conducted from her prison to the place of execution. Till it arrived,

her devotions had been uninterrupted, and the executioners, sent to

fetch her, found her still praying to that Eternal Being in whom her

faith was centred, that He would endow her with strength and fortitude

to receive the bitter cup that awaited her. When the door of her prison

opened, she saw the executioners enter without manifesting any emotion

or surprise, but looked meekly towards them, waiting for the fulfilment

of their mission. But these men, whose nature is hardened to the most

savage cruelty, after intimating to her that they were come to conduct

her to death, tied around her neck a thick rope, by which they commenced

dragging her along as though she were a wild beast. The lovely young

girl, wrapped in her haique,[16] her eyes fixed on the earth, which she

moistened with her bitter tears, followed them with faltering steps. As

she passed, compassion, grief, tenderness, and every painful emotion of

the heart, might be traced in the countenances of the Jews; but among

the Mahometans there were no visible relentings of humanity. The Moors,

of all sects and ages, who crowded the streets, rent the air with their

discordant rejoicings. "She comes!" they cried; "she comes, who

blasphemed the name of the Prophet. Let her die for her impiety!"

From the prison to the Soco, the crowds every minute augmented, though

the square formed by the troops prevented their penetrating to the

scaffold. Every alley and lane was crowded, and amid the most extreme

confusion the executioner arrived with Sol at the appointed spot. The

pen refuses to describe the incidents of the few succeeding moments.

Some few, even amongst the Moors, were moved, and wept freely and

bitterly. The executioner[17] unsheathed his sharp scimetar, and whirled

it twice or thrice in the air, as a signal for silence, when the uproar

of the Moors was hushed. The beautiful Sol was then directed to kneel

down,--at which moment she begged for a little water to wash her hands.

It was immediately brought, when she performed the ablution required by

the Jewish custom before engaging in prayer. The spectators were

anxiously observant of all the actions of the victim. Lifting her eyes

to heaven, and amid many tears, she recited the Sema (the prayer offered

by those of her nation before death), and then, turning to the

executioners, "I have finished," said she, "dispose of my life;" and,

fixing her gaze upon the earth, she knelt to receive the fatal stroke.

The scene had by this time begun to change its aspect. The vast

concourse of people, seeing Sol's meek gentleness, could not but be

moved; many wept, and all felt a degree of compassion for her faith. The

executioner, then, seizing the arms of the victim, and twisting them

behind her back, bound them with a rope, and whirling his sword in the

air, laid hold of the long hair of Sol's head, and wounded her slightly,

as he had been commanded, yet so that the blood flowed instantly from

the wound, dyeing her breast and garments.

But Sol, turning her face to the cruel executioner, replied--

"There is yet time," said they to her; "be converted, your life may yet

be spared."

"Slay me, and let me not linger in my sufferings; dying innocently, as I

do, the God of Abraham will judge my cause."

These were her last words, at the close of them the scimetar descended

upon her fair neck, and the courageous maiden was no more.

The Jews had paid six Moors to deliver to them the corpse with the

blood-stained earth on which it lay, immediately after the execution of

the sentence. This was accordingly done, and the remains, wrapped in a

fine linen cloth, were deposited in a deep sepulchre of the Jewish

cemetery by the side of those of a learned and honored sage of the law

of Moses. Amidst tears and sighs was the Hebrew martyr buried. Even some

of the Moors followed her, mourning to her grave, and still visit her

tomb, and venerate her resting place as that of a true and faithful

martyr to the creed she held.

FOOTNOTES:

[9] Or "captain of a hundred," centurion. From the Arabic _kaid_, a

leader or chief, _mia_, a hundred. The Kaidmia is adjutant of the

empire.

[10] A kind of sweetmeat prepared for the emperor and persons of high

rank, composed of milk, sugar, butter, and cinnamon.

[11] A herb like sweet marjoram, usually accompanying tea in Morocco.

[12] A learned professor of the law. It is the common practice in Arabia

to have whispering-galleries and watch-rooms in most houses, so that

what passes in one apartment may be overheard in another.

[13] It may here be mentioned, that the Moorish law cannot _force_ a Jew

to change his religion; this conversion must be voluntary. The cadi

could not, therefore, condemn Sol to death, because she refused to

become a Mahometan, unless she had made use of some expressions

impugning the law of Mahomet. This will be seen by the sequel.

[14] The Jajamins or Hajamins are Jews invested with certain

dignities--_Anglice_, "wise men," and respected as such.

[15] On these words was the sentence of Sol framed, impeaching, as they

did, the Mahometan creed.

[16] The _haique_, a sort of bonded cloak, is worn in Africa by the Jews

as well as the Moors.

[17] All Moorish executions are performed with a sword.

From Chambers's Edinburgh Journal.

ADVENTURES OF AN ARMY PHYSICIAN.

A REMINISCENCE OF THE BRITISH RULE IN NEW-YORK.

Robert Jackson, the son of a small landed proprietor of limited income

but respectable character in Lanarkshire, was born in 1750, at

Stonebyres, in that county. He received his education first at the

barony school of Wandon, and afterwards under the care of Mr. Wilson, a

teacher of considerable local celebrity at Crawford, one of the wildest

spots in the Southern Highlands. He was subsequently apprenticed to Mr.

William Baillie, in Biggar; and in 1766 proceeded, for the completion of

his professional training, to the university of Edinburgh, at that time

illustrated and adorned by the genius and learning of such men as the

Monros, the Cullens, and the Blacks.

In pursuing his studies at this favored abode of science and literature,

young Jackson is said to have evinced all that purity of morals and

singleness of heart which characterised him in after-life, and to have

resisted the allurements of dissipation by which, in those days

especially, the youthful student was tempted to wander from the paths of

virtuous industry. His circumstances were, however, distressingly

narrow; and not only was he forced to forego the means of professional

improvement open only to the more opulent student; but in order to meet

the expenses of the winter-sessions, he was obliged to employ the

summer, not in the study but in the practice of his profession. He

engaged himself as medical officer to a Greenland whaler, and in two

successive summers visited, in that capacity, "the thrilling regions of

thick-ribbed ice;" returning on each occasion with a recruited purse and

a frame strengthened and invigorated by exposure and exercise. During

these expeditions he occupied his leisure with the study of the Greek

and Roman languages, and the careful and repeated perusal of the best

authors in both.

His third winter-sessions at Edinburgh having passed away, he was

induced to go out and seek his fortune in Jamaica, and accordingly

proceeded thither in a vessel commanded by one Captain Cunningham, who

had previously been employed as master of a transport at the siege of

Havannah. It is far from improbable that it was from his conversations

with this individual that Jackson derived those hints, of which at a

future time he availed himself, respecting the transmission of troops by

sea without injury to their health; but it is quite certain his

conviction of the enormous value of cold-water affusions as a curative

agent in the last stage of febrile affections, was imbibed from this

source.

Arriving in Jamaica, he in 1774 became assistant to an eminent general

practitioner at Savana-la-Mar, Dr. King, who was also in medical charge

of a detachment of the first battalion of the 50th regiment. This latter

he consigned to Jackson's care; and well worthy of the trust did our

young adventurer, though but twenty-four years of age, approve

himself--visiting three or four times a day the quarters of the troops

to detect incipient disease, and studying with ardor and intelligent

attention the varied phenomena of tropical maladies. Four years thus

passed profitably away, and they would have been as pleasant as

profitable, but for one circumstance. The existence of slavery and its

concomitant horrors, appears to have made a deep impression on Jackson's

mind, and, at last, to have produced in him such sentiments of disgust

and abhorrence, that he resolved on quitting the island altogether, and,

as the phrase is, trying his luck in North America, where the

revolutionary war was then raging. This resolution--due perhaps, as much

to his love of travel as to the motive assigned--was not altogether

unfortunate, for shortly after his departure, October 3, 1780,

Savana-la-Mar was totally destroyed, and the surrounding country for a

considerable distance desolated, by a terrible hurricane and sweeping

inroad of the sea, in which Dr. King, his family and partner, together

with numbers of others, unhappily perished.

The law of Jamaica forbade any one to leave the island without having

given previous notice of his intention, or having obtained the bond of

some respectable person as security for such debts as he might have

outstanding. Jackson, when he embarked for America, had no debts

whatever, and was, moreover, ignorant of the law, with whose

requirements therefore he did not comply. Nor did he become aware of his

mistake until, when off the easternmost point of the island, the master

of the vessel approached him and said: "We are now, sir, off

Point-Morant; you will therefore have the goodness to favor me with your

security-bond. It is a mere legal form, but we are obliged to respect

it." Finding this "legal form" had not been complied with, the master

then, in spite of Jackson's protestations and entreaties, set him on

shore, and the vessel continued on her voyage. What was to be done?

Almost penniless, landed on a part of the coast where he knew not a

soul, Jackson well-nigh gave himself up to despair. There was a vessel

for New-York loading, it was true, at Lucea; but Lucea was 150 miles

distant, on the westernmost side of the island, and not to be reached by

sea, whilst our adventurer's purse would not suffer him to hire a horse.

No choice was left him but to walk, and that in a country where the

exigencies of the climate make pedestrianism perilous in the extreme to

the white man. Having reached Kingston, which was in the neighborhood,

in a boat, and obtained the necessary certificate, he started on his

dangerous expedition, and on the first day walked eighteen miles, being

sheltered at night in the house of a benevolent planter. The next day he

pushed on for Rio Bueno, which he had almost reached, when, overcome by

thirst, he stopped by the way to refresh himself, and imprudently

standing in an open piazza exposed to a smart easterly breeze, whilst

his lemonade was preparing, contracted a severe chill that almost took

from him the power of motion, and left him to crawl along the road

slowly and with pain, until he reached his destination.

Having finally arrived, friendless and moneyless, in New-York, then in

the occupation of the British, he endeavored first to obtain a

commission in the New-York volunteers, and afterwards employment as mate

in the Naval Hospital. In his endeavors, he was kindly assisted by a

Jamaica gentleman, a fellow-passenger, whose regard during the voyage he

had succeeded in conciliating by his amiable manners and evident

abilities; but his efforts were all in vain, and poor Jackson, familiar

with poverty from childhood, began now to experience the misery of

destitution. In truth, starvation stared him in the face, and a sense of

delicacy withheld him from seeking from his Jamaica friend the most

trifling pecuniary assistance. In this, his state of desperation, he

determined upon passing the British lines, and endeavoring to obtain

amongst the insurgents the food he had hitherto sought in vain;

resolving, however, under no circumstances to bear arms against his

native country. Whilst moodily and slowly walking towards the British

outposts to carry into execution this scheme, having in one pocket a

shirt, and in another a Greek Testament and a Homer, he was met half-way

by a British officer, who fixed his eyes steadily on him in passing.

Jackson in his agitation thought he read in the glance a knowledge of

his purpose and a disapprobation of it. Struck by the incident, he

turned back, and, after a moment's reflection, resolved on offering

himself as a volunteer in the first battalion of the 71st regiment

(Sutherland Highlanders), then in cantonment near New-York. Arriving at

the place, he presented himself to the notice of Lieutenant-Colonel

(afterwards Sir Archibald) Campbell, who, having first ascertained that

he was a Scotsman, inquired to whom he was known at New-York. Jackson

replied, to no one; but that a fellow-passenger from Jamaica would

readily testify to his being a gentleman. "I require no testimony to

your being a gentleman," returned the kind-hearted colonel. "Your

countenance and address satisfy me on that head. I will receive you into

the regiment with pleasure; but then I have to inform you, Mr. Jackson,

that there are seventeen on the list before you, who are of course

entitled to prior promotion." The next day, at the instance of Colonel

Campbell, the regimental surgeon, Dr. Stuart, appointed Jackson acting

hospital or surgeon's mate--a rank now happily abolished in the British

army; for those who filled it, whatever might be their competency or

skill, were accounted and treated no better than drudges. Although

discharging the duties that now devolve on the assistant-surgeon, they

were not, like him, commissioned, but only warrant-officers, and

therefore had no title to half-pay.

Dr. Stuart, who appears to have been a man superior to vulgar prejudice,

and to have appreciated at once the extent of Jackson's acquirements and

the vigor of his intellect, relinquished to him, almost without control,

the charge of the regimental hospital. Here it was that this able young

officer began to put in practice that amended system of army medical

treatment which since his time, but in conformity with his teachings,

has been so successfully carried out as to reduce the mortality amongst

our soldiery from what it formerly was--about fifteen per cent--to what

it is now, about two and a half per cent.

In the army hospitals, at the period Jackson commenced a career that was

to eventuate so gloriously, there was no regulated system of diet, no

classification of the sick. What are now well known as "medical

comforts," were things unheard of; the sick soldier, like the healthy

soldier, had his ration of salt-beef or pork, and his allowance of rum.

The hospital furnished him with no bedding; he must bring his own

blanket. Any place would do for a hospital. That in which Jackson began

his labors had originally been a commissary's store; but happily its

roof was water-tight--an unusual occurrence--and its site being in close

proximity to a wood, our active surgeon's mate managed, by the aid of a

common fatigue party, to surround the walls with wicker-work platforms,

which served the patients as tolerably comfortable couches. A further

and still more important change he effected related to the article of

diet. He suggested, and the suggestion was adopted--honor to the

courageous humanity which did not shrink from so righteous an

innovation!--that instead of his salt ration and spirits, which he could

not consume, the sick soldier should be supplied with fresh meat,

broth, &c.; and that, as the quantity required for the invalid would be

necessarily small, the quarter-master should allow the saving on the

commuted ration to be expended in the common market on other comforts,

such as sago, &c., suitable for the patient. Thus proper hospital diet

was furnished, without entailing any additional expense on the

state.[18]

Indefatigable in the discharge of his interesting duties, Mr. Jackson

speedily obtained the confidence of his military superiors, who remarked

with admiration not only his intelligent zeal in performing his hospital

functions, but his calmness, quickness of perception, and generous

self-devotion when in the field of battle. On one occasion, although

suffering at the time from severe indisposition, he remained, under a

heavy fire, succoring the wounded, in spite of the remonstrances of the

officers present. On another, having observed the British commander,

Colonel (afterwards General) Tarleton, in danger of falling into the

hands of the enemy, who had routed the royalist troops, he galloped up

to the colonel--whom a musket-ball had just dismounted-pressed him to

mount his own horse and escape, whilst he himself, with a white

handkerchief displayed, quietly proceeded in the direction of the

advancing foe, and surrendered himself at once. The American commander,

who did not know what to make of such conduct, asked him who he was? He

replied: "I am assistant surgeon in the 71st regiment. Many of the men

are wounded, and in your hands. I come, therefore, to offer my services

in attending them." He was accordingly sent to the rear as a prisoner;

but was well treated, and spent the first night of his captivity in

dressing his soldiers' wounds, taking off his shirt, and tearing it up

into bandages for the purpose. He afterwards did the same good office

for the American sufferers; and when the wounded English could be

exchanged, Washington sent him back, not only without exchange, but even

without requiring his parole. At a subsequent period during the same

unhappy war, when the British under Lord Cornwallis were in full

retreat, the sick and wounded were placed in a building--which the

colonists, on their approach, began to riddle with shot. Several

surgeons, not caring to incur the risk of entering so exposed an

edifice, agreed to cast lots who should go in and see to the invalids;

but Jackson, with characteristic nerve and simplicity, at once stepped

forward: "No, no," said he, "I will go and attend to the men!" He did

so, and returned unhurt.

After this we find him a prisoner in the hands of the Americans and

French at Yorktown, Virginia. As on the former occasion, he was treated

with all imaginable kindness; and, being released on parole, returned to

Europe early in 1782, and proceeded by way of Cork, Dublin, and Greenock

to Edinburgh, where he abode for a short time. Thence he started for

London: and, desirous of testing the best way of sustaining physical

strength during long marches, and urged perhaps also by economical

considerations, he resolved to make the journey on foot. His West Indian

and American experience had taught him that spare diet consisted best

with pedestrian efficiency, and it was accordingly his practice, during

this long walk, to abstain from animal food until the close of day, nor

often then to partake of it. He would walk some fourteen miles before

breakfast--a meal of tea and bread; rest then for an hour or an hour and

a half; then pace on until bedtime--a salad, a tart, or sometimes tea

and bread, forming his usual evening fare. He found that on this diet he

arose every morning at dawn with alacrity, and could prosecute without

inconvenience his laborious undertaking. By way of experiment he twice

or thrice varied his plan--dining on the road off beefsteaks, and having

a draught of porter in the course of the afternoon; but the result

justified his anticipations. The stimulus of the beer soon passing off,

lassitude succeeded the temporary strength it had lent him; and, worse

than all, his disposition to early rising sensibly diminished.

His stay in London, which he reached in this primitive fashion, was not

long. His kind friend Dr. Stuart, who had exchanged into the Royal

Horse-Guards, gave him the shelter of his roof; but so poor was Mr.

Jackson, that, although ardently desirous of improving himself in his

profession, he was unable to attend any one of the medical schools with

which London abounds.

The peace of 1783 having opened the continent to the curiosity of the

British traveller, Jackson curtly announced to his friends, that "he was

going to take a walk." His poverty allowed him no other mode of

locomotion; so off he set on the grand tour, carrying with him a map of

France, a bundle of clothes, and a scanty supply of money. Crossing the

Channel, he reached Calais, a place which Horace Walpole, writing from

Rome, declared had astonished him more than any thing he had elsewhere

seen, but in which our adventurer found nothing more astonishing than a

superb Swiss regiment. He proceeded to Paris, and thence through

Switzerland, by Geneva and Berne, into Germany, at a town of which--Guenz

in Suabia--he met with a comical enough adventure.

On entering the town he was challenged by a soldier, who, having learned

he had no passport, carried him before a magistrate, by whom he was

forthwith condemned as a vagabond, and remitted to the custody of a

recruiting sergeant. This worthy, in turn, introduced him to the

commanding officer, who politely gave our traveller the choice of

serving his Imperial and Apostolic Majesty, the Emperor of Germany,

either in his cavalry or his infantry forces. But Jackson, strangely

insensible to the honor, flatly refused to serve his Majesty in these or

any other ways, and desired to be at once set free, and suffered to

continue his journey. The officer, doubtless, amazed at such

presumption, desired the sergeant to convey him to the barracks, where

he was placed in a large room, in which were congregated some two

hundred or so involuntary recruits like himself--harmless travellers,

who, being destitute of passports, the emperor forcibly enlisted into

his service. Jackson found his co-mates in misfortune very dirty, very

ragged, but perfectly civil and good-tempered. Having a little recovered

his serenity--for it is easy to see, though our hero is described as a

man of placid demeanor and somewhat Quakerly appearance, he could be not

a little fiery at times--he sat down and wrote to the commanding

officer, entreating leave to sleep at an inn, and proffering the deposit

of all his money as a pledge for his reappearance next morning. The

reply was an order that he should surrender his writing materials. At

seven o'clock, the appointed sleeping hour, the sergeant returned and

gave the signal for bed by rapping with his cane on the floor, which was

speedily covered by a number of dirty bags of mouldy straw--the

regulation mattresses, it would seem, for involuntary recruits.

Jackson--peppery again--refused to lie down, but was at last compelled

to do so, and between two of the dirtiest fellows of the lot, each of

whom had a leg chained to an arm. The next morning, at his own request,

he was brought before the commandant of the town, who had only arrived

late the preceding evening, and whom he found seated in his bedroom,

"with all his officers standing round him receiving orders," says

Jackson, "with more humility than orderly-sergeants." The commandant

repeated the offer of "cavalry or infantry;" adding that a war was about

to commence with the Turks, and that good-behavior would insure

promotion. However, finding Jackson obstinately persistent in his

refusal, he quietly observed, in conclusion, that the emperor, as a

matter of rule and of right, "impressed" into his army all such as

entered his dominions without certificates of character. "The order was

so tyrannical," declares our _detenu_, "that I could not contain myself.

'Put me in chains, if you please,' I said, 'but I tell you, all Germany

shall not make me carry a musket for the emperor.'" This impetuous burst

of indignation seems to have alarmed the pglegmatic commandant, who

accordingly let our adventurer go, counselling him, however, to write to

the English ambassador at Vienna for a passport, lest he should get into

further trouble.

Jackson passed through the Tyrol into Italy, every where indulging his

love of scenery and still greater love of adventure; studying with all

the acuteness of his countrymen the varied characters of the people he

met with, and in his correspondence with home friends, sketching them in

language striking for its force, its propriety, and originality. Some of

his remarks on men and manners are conceived in a truly Goldsmithian

vein, whilst all testify at once to the goodness of his heart and the

quickness of his perceptions. At Venice he says that he felt it to be

"such a feast of enjoyment as seldom falls to the lot of man, and never

to the lot of any but a poor man, who has nothing conspicuous about him

to attract the notice of the crowd," to possess such facilities as he

did for learning what the people of foreign countries really were.

At Albenga, in Piedmont, Jackson arrived one night, tired, hungry, and

drenched with rain. Intending to put up at the "Albergo di San

Dominico," which he had been informed was the best inn, he went by

accident to the convent of the same name, and entering, called loudly to

be shown to a private room. "Instead of telling me I was wrong," he

says, "the young brethren looked waggish, and began to laugh: when a man

is cold and hungry, he can ill brook being the sport of others;" so

accordingly--peppery again--he shook his stick angrily at the young

monks. And at last one of the most courteous and demure of the number,

coming forward, said that although theirs was not exactly a public

house, still the stranger was heartily welcome to walk in, rest, and

refresh himself. Discovering his mistake, Jackson of course lost no time

in making his bow, his apologies, and acknowledgments.

He returned to England by way of France, having but six sous in his

pockets when he reached Bordeaux, where an English merchant, a total

stranger, advanced him a few pounds. On the road, he was frequently

taken for an Irishman, and not seldom for an Irish priest; under which

impression, many civilities were paid him by the simple inhabitants of

the country he traversed. Ultimately he landed at Southampton, with just

four shillings in his possession: his once black coat having turned a

rusty brown, his hat shovel-shaped by ill-usage, and his whole aspect so

comical, that the mob hooted him, under the belief that he was a

Methodist preacher. Proceeding inland on foot, in the direction of

Southampton, he overtook a poor man walking along the road, whose looks

of unutterable misery induced our traveller to stop and inquire what

ailed him. He told Jackson he had a son and daughter dying of a disorder

apparently contagious, and that no physician would attend them, as he

was too poor to pay the fees. Jackson at once offered his services,

which were gratefully accepted. He saw his patients, and prescribed for

them, and his heart was touched by their simple expressions of

gratitude. "Their thankfulness," he says, "for a thing that would

perhaps do them no good, gave me more pleasure than a fee of, I believe,

twenty guineas, much in need of it as I was." The night had gathered in

before he reached Winchester, where, at a respectable inn, he partook of

such refreshment as his means afforded, and then desired to be shown to

his bedroom. The answer was, that the house contained no bedroom for

such as he, and he was finally driven out with the coarsest abuse into

the streets. The hour was ten o'clock, the month December, and the

severity of the weather may be guessed from the fact, that the snow lay

deep on the ground. After wandering about for some time, he at last

obtained shelter in a small house in the outskirts of the city. The next

day he fared little better. "On Sunday morning," he relates, "I was

sixty-four miles from London, and had only one shilling in my pocket. I

was hungry, but durst not eat; thirsty, and I durst not drink, for fear

of being obliged to lie all night at the side of a hedge in a cold night

in December. After dark, I travelled over to Bagshot; was denied

admittance into some of the public-houses, ill used in others." He

sought in vain permission even to lie in a barn; but a laborer he

fortunately fell in with conducted him to a house, where, at the

sacrifice of his last shilling, he secured at length a bed. The next

day--foot-sore, penniless and starving--he entered London. After

remaining there a brief space--January, 1784--in spite of the inclement

season, he set off, again on foot, to Perth--a journey that occupied him

three weeks, as he was detained on the way by some friends whom he

visited. At Perth, where his old regiment then lay previous to its

disbandment, he amused himself by studying Gaelic, and the controversy

respecting Ossian and his poems. Quitting Perth, he travelled, still on

foot, through the Highlands, the inhabitants of which he was, in the

first instance, disposed to class with savages; but when he had observed

the originality of conception, the breadth of humor, and the elevated

sentiments which mark the Celt, his opinions underwent a total

revolution. He was especially delighted with a ragged old reiver or

cattle-lifter whom he encountered, and who had given shelter to the

Young Chevalier in the braes of Glenmoriston after the battle of

Culloden.

On his return to Edinburgh, Jackson married a lady of fortune, the

daughter of Dr. Stephenson, and niece of his old friend Colonel Francis

Shelley, of the 71st regiment; and was enabled by this accession to his

means once again to visit Paris, where he not only resumed his medical

studies, but acquired the mastery of several languages, Arabic amongst

the rest. Having graduated M. D. at Leyden, he came back again to

England, and commenced practice at Stockton-upon-Tees, in Durham.

Although his reputation speedily became considerable, especially in

cases of fever, he seems scarcely to have liked his new avocation. He

found solace, however, in his favorite study of language, which he

pursued with unremitting ardor--constantly reading through the Greek and

Latin classics, and not only rendering himself familiar with the best

works of the modern continental authors, but also with the literature of

the Arabic, Persian, Hebrew, and Gaelic tongues. The _Bostan_ of Saadi

is said to have been one of his most favorite poems.

On the war breaking out in 1793, Dr. Jackson--who, in 1791, had

published a valuable work on the fevers of Jamaica and continental

America--applied for employment as army-physician; but Mr. Hunter, the

director-general of the medical department of the army, considering none

eligible for such employment who had not served as staff or regimental

surgeon, or apothecary to the forces, Jackson agreed to accept, in the

first instance, the surgeoncy of the 3d Buffs, on the understanding,

that at a future time, he should be nominated physician as he desired.

Mr. Hunter, however, ever, died soon after this; and his promise was not

fulfilled by the Board which succeeded him in the medical direction of

the army, and which appears to have pursued Dr. Jackson with uniform

hostility.

Returning to England with the troops, it was offered to him to

accompany, in the capacity of chief medical officer, Sir Ralph

Abercromby's expedition against some of the West India islands; and

although no employment could possibly have been more agreeable to his

taste, he, much to Sir Ralph's chagrin, declined the flattering

proposal, on the grounds, that lower terms had been offered to him than

to another professional man. Nothing but a sense of professional

delicacy, it is plain, governed him in this transaction, for he

immediately afterwards embarked (April, 1796) as _second_ medical

officer in another expedition to San Domingo. During his abode in this

island, he was unwearied in enlarging his acquaintance with tropical

diseases--observing the rule he had followed in Holland of noting down

by the patient's bedside the minutest particulars of every case he

attended, the effects of the treatment pursued, and whatever else might

shed light on the intricacies of pathological science. He also gave a

larger practical operation to the scheme he had years before devised of

amending the dietaries of military hospitals.

After the evacuation of San Domingo in 1798, our physician paid a visit

to the United States, where he was received with signal distinction, his

reputation having preceded him. The latter part of the year found him

again at Stockton, publishing a work on contagious and endemic fevers,

"more especially the contagious fever of ships, jails, and hospitals,

vulgarly called the yellow-fever of the West Indies;" together with "an

explanation of military discipline and economy, with a scheme for the

medical arrangements of armies." He undertook, about this time, by

desire of Count Woronzow, the Russian ambassador, the medical charge of

seventeen hundred Russian soldiers, who were stationed in the Channel

Islands in a sad state of disease and disorganization; and so admirably

did he acquit himself, and so perfect were the hospital provisions he

made, that (1800) the commander-in-chief nominated him physician and

head of the army-hospital depot at Chatham--as he says, "without any

application or knowledge on his part." This appointment was the cause of

his subsequent misfortunes.

At Chatham, with the warm approbation of Major-General Hewett,

commanding the depot, he introduced that system of hospital reform form

which had elsewhere operated so successfully. The changes he effected,

as soon as they were made, became known to the Medical Board, and were

publicly approved of by one of its members. However, shortly afterwards,

an epidemic broke out in the depot (then removed to the Isle of Wight),

arising from the fact, that the barracks were overcrowded with young

recruits, but which the medical board ascribed to Jackson's innovations,

and reported so to the Horse-Guards. The commander-in-chief directed an

inquiry to take place before a medical board impannelled for the

purpose, and the result of that inquiry may be guessed from a

communication made by the War-Office to the commandant of the depot.

This states "the unanimous opinion of the board to have exculpated Dr.

Jackson from all improper treatment of diseases in the sick," and the

commander-in-chief's gratification, "than an opportunity has thus been

given to that most zealous officer of proving his fitness for the

important situation in which he is placed." The result of this wretched

intrigue, however, was that Jackson, disgusted with the whole affair,

requested to be placed on half-pay, to which request the Duke of York,

with marked reluctance, at last (March 1803) acceded.

In his retirement at Stockton, Jackson put forth two valuable works, one

on the medical economy of armies, and another on that of the British

army in particular, and was much gratified by an offer to accompany, as

military secretary, General Simcoe, just appointed commander-in-chief in

India. The general's sudden death, however, put an end to this plan; and

Jackson continued at Stockton, addressing frequent representations to

government on the defective medical arrangements in the military

service--representations the very receipt of which were not acknowledged

by Mr. Pitt, to whom they were forwarded. The Peninsular war commencing,

Dr. Jackson was again named Inspector of Hospitals, but was not, thanks

to the persevering enmity of the Medical Board, sent on foreign service,

although he volunteered to sink his rank, and go in any capacity. The

Board even succeeded, by calumnious statements, that he had purchased

his diploma--statements he readily confuted--in preventing his

appointment to the Spanish liberating army; although the British

government had formally requested him to accept such an appointment, and

agreed to give credentials testifying to his capacity and

trustworthiness. This last appointment led him, in an unguarded

moment--peppery to the last--to inflict a slight personal chastisement

on the surgeon-general, for which he was imprisoned six months in the

King's Bench.

But the triumph of his enemies was not of long duration. In 1810 the

Board was dissolved, and the control of the medical department vested in

a director-general, with three principal inspectors subordinate to him.

Then did Jackson return to active service, and from 1811 to 1815 was

employed in the West Indies; his reports from whence embracing every

topic relating to medical topography, to sanitary arrangements, and to

the observed phenomena of tropical disease, are, it is not too much to

say, invaluable. His hints as to the choice of sites for barracks, the

propriety of giving to soldiers healthy employment and recreation, as a

means of averting sickness, his suggestions as to the treatment of

fevers and other endemic diseases, may be found in the various works he

has published, embodying the fruits of his West Indian experience.

In 1819, he was sent by government to Spain, where the yellow-fever had

broken out, and his report upon its characteristics has been universally

admitted to supply the fullest information on the subject that had

hitherto been communicated to the public. He availed himself of his

presence in that part of Europe to pay a visit to Constantinople and the

Levant; and, retaining his energy to the last, when a British force was

sent to Portugal in 1827, he desired permission to accompany it. The

sands of his life, however, were then fast running out, and on the 6th

of April in the same year he died, after a short illness, at Thursby,

near Carlisle, in the seventy-seventh year of his age. Thus closed a

long career of usefulness; for it is not too much to say, that few men

of his time labored harder to benefit his fellow-creatures than did Dr.

Robert Jackson.

* * * * *

SPANISH NAMES.--A Spanish journal gives the following singular names as

those of two _employes_ in the Finance department at Madrid:--Don

Epifanio Mirurzururdundua y Zengotita, and Don Juan Nepomuceno de

Burionagonatotorecagogeazcoecha. The journal would have done well to

have given some directions as to the pronunciation.

FOOTNOTES:

[18] The late Admiral Sir Edward Codrington, when in command, during the

war, of a frigate on the coast of Calabria, finding sickness appear

amongst his crew, purchased on his own responsibility some bullocks, for

the purpose of supplying them with fresh meat. Lord Collingwood having

heard of this, and considering it a breach of discipline, sent for

Codrington, and addressed him: "Captain Codrington, pray have you any

idea of the price of a bullock In this place?" "No, my lord," was the

reply, "I have not; but I know well the value of a British sailor's

life!"

From Dicken's Household Words.

STRINGS OF PROVERBS.

When a saying has passed into a national proverb, it is regarded as

having received the "hall-mark" of the people, with respect to its

prudence or practical wisdom. Proverbs deal only with realities,

generally of the most homely and every-day kind, and are always supposed

to comprise the most sage advice, or the most broad worldly truth,

within the least possible compass.

Now, while we admit that proverbs are for the most part true, and useful

in their teaching, and that they very often inculcate excellent maxims,

we must at the same time enter our protest against the infallibility of

most of them. Numbers will be found, on the least examination (which is

seldom given to them) to be one-sided truths; others, inculcate an

utterly selfish conduct, under the guise of prudence or worldly wisdom;

and some of them are absolutely false, or only of the narrowest

application. The majority of the proverbs, of all modern nations,

originate with the people, and with the humbler classes (we must except

the Chinese and Arabic, which are evidently the product of their sages),

as witnessed by the homeliness of the allusions, and the frequent

vulgarity, but, in all cases, the actual experience of life and its

ordinary occurences with regard to men and things. They are full of

corn, with a proportionate quantity of chaff and straw. Let us no

longer, therefore, take all these "sayings" for granted; let us rather

take them to task a little, for their revision and our own good.

Proverbs being the common property of all mankind, and often to be

traced to very remote geographical sources, we shall observe no national

classification; but string a few together now and then from Arabia and

China, from Spain, Italy, France, or England, just as they may occur.

So, now to our first string.

_Honesty is the best policy._ This is true in the higher sense; but

doubtful in the sense usually intended. It is true as to the general

good, but not usually for the individual, except in the long run. (We

pass over the obvious truth, that it is better policy to earn a guinea,

than to steal one, because the proverb has a far wider range of meaning

than that.) To be a "politic," clever fellow, a vast deal more humoring

of prejudices, errors, and follies, is requisite, than at all assorts

with true honesty of character. If, however, we regard this proverb only

on its higher moral ground, then, of course, we must at once admit its

truth. The reader will probably be surprised, as we were, to find that

it comes from the Chinese, and will be found in the translation of the

novel of "_Iu-Kiao-Li_."

_A leap from a hedge is better than a good man's prayer._ (Spanish.) The

leap (of a robber) from his lurking-place, being preferable to asking

charity, and receiving a blessing, is one of those proverbs, the

impudent immorality of which is of a kind that makes it impossible to

help laughing. Its frank atrocity amounts to the ludicrous. It is an old

Spanish proverb, and occurs in "Don Quixote"--of course in the mouth of

Sancho.

_A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush._ The extreme caution

ridiculed by this proverb is of a kind which one would hardly have

expected to be popular in a commercial country. If this were acted upon,

there would be an end of trade and commerce, and all capital would lie

dead at the banker's--as a bird who was held safe. The truth is, our

whole practice is of a directly opposite kind. We regard a bird in the

hand as worth only a bird; and we know there is no chance of making it

worth two birds--not to speak of the hope of a dozen--without letting it

out of the hand. Inasmuch, however, as the proverb also means to exhort

us not to give up a good certainty for a tempting uncertainty, we do

most fully coincide in its prudence and good sense. It is identical with

the French "_Mieux vaut un_ 'tiens' _que deux_ 'tu l'auras,'"--one "take

this" is better than two "thou shalt have it;"--identical also with the

Italian: _E meglio un uovo oggi, che una gallina domani_; an egg to-day

is better than a hen to-morrow. It owes its origin to the Arabic--"A

thousand cranes in the air, are not worth one sparrow in the fist."

_Enough is as good as a feast._ The best comment on this proverb that

occurs to us was the reply made by Rooke, the composer (a man who had a

fund of racy Irish wit in him), at a time when he was struggling with

considerable worldly difficulties. "How few are our real wants!" said a

consoling friend; "of what consequence is a splendid dinner? Enough is

as good as a feast."--"Yes," replied Rooke, "and therefore a feast is as

good as enough--and I think I prefer the former."

_Love me, love my dog._ At first sight this has a kindly appearance, as

of one whose interest in a humble friend was as great as any he took in

himself; but, on looking closer into it, we fear it involves a curious

amount of selfish encroachment upon the kindness of others--a sort of

doubling of the individuality, with all its exactions. My dog (in

whatever shape) may be an odious beast; or, at best, one who either

makes himself, or, whose misfortune it is to be, very disagreeable to

certain people; but, never mind--what of that, if he is _my_ dog?

Society could not go on if this were persisted it.

_Set a beggar on horseback, and he'll ride to the devil._ The direction

in which he will ride depends entirely on the character of the

beggar--or poor man suddenly risen to power. Some sink over the other

side of the horse, and drop into utter sloth and pampered sensualism;

but others do their best to ride well, and sometimes succeed. Masaniello

and Rienzi did not ride long in the best way; but several patriots, who

have rapidly risen from obscurity to power, have set noble examples.

_Throw him into a river, and he will rise with a fish in his mouth._

(Arabic.) Some men are so fortunate that nothing can sink them. Where

another man would drown they find fish or pearls.

_The monkey feared transmigration, lest he should become a gazelle._

(Arabic.) The matchless conceit of some people, and utter ignorance of

themselves, either as to appearance or abilities, are finely expressed

in the above.

_The baker's wife went to bed hungry._ (Arabic.) How often is it seen,

that those who follow a profession or trade, are among the last to

display a special benefit from their calling! Our proverb, that

"Shoemakers' wives are the worst shod," seems to be derived from the

same source.

_Chat echaude craint l'eau froide_; the scalded cat fears (even) cold

water. This is a better version of the English proverb of "A burnt child

dreads the fire." That the proverb is by no means of general

application, the experience of every one can avouch. It would be the

saving of many a child, of whatever age, who having been burnt should

entertain a salutary dread of the fire ever after. But it is not so;

witness how many are burnt--_i.e._, ruined, wounded, shot, drowned, made

ridiculous, who had all been previously well warned by "burning their

fingers" with losses, injuries by land and sea, and failures in attempts

involving dangerous chances.

_Crom a boo_; I will burn. This Irish proverb, or saying, may serve in

many respects as an adverse commentary on the preceding. There are

people who are never at rest when they are out of hot water--nor

contented when they are in. "I will burn" is the motto of the Duke of

Leinster. It would do capitally for Mr. Smith O'Brien. Perhaps, however,

it should not be read as a resolution to suffer, but as a threat to

inflict a burning. Still, the vagueness of this threat--a dreadful

announcement with no definite object--would render it equally

applicable.

_Bis dat qui cito dat_; he gives double who gives promptly. The truth of

this is well illustrated by the converse it suggests; that he who long

delays and tantalizes before giving, earns less gratitude than scorn. It

requires more generosity and a finer mind to confer a favor in the best

way, than to confer double the amount of the favor in itself.

_What I gain afore I lose ahint._ (Scotch.) To be engrossed with a fixed

object, is to forget what is going on all around us. I am closely

engaged with what is passing before my eyes, while I am deceived and

injured behind my back. This quaint old proverb has been ludicrously

illustrated by a characteristic story. A Highlander, in a somewhat

scanty kilt, was crossing a desolate moor one winter's night, and being

very cold, he hastened to a light he saw at no great distance. It turned

out to be a decomposed cod's head, which sent forth phosphoric gleams.

He stooped down to try and warm his hands at it; but finding the bleak

winds whistling all round his legs, he made the sage observation above,

which has passed into a proverb.

_Entfloh'nes Wort, geworf'ner Stein, die kommen nimmermehr herein_; the

hasty word, and hasty stone, can never be recalled. How truthful, how

home to the mark, does this proverb fly; how excellent is the warning

and the self-command it inculcates!

_To-day a fire, to-morrow ashes._ (Arabic.) Violent passions are the

soonest exhausted; to-day all-powerful, to-morrow nothing, or the

consequences.

_Reading the psalms to the dead._ (Arabic.) This is the original of our

"Preaching to the dead," to express the fruitlessness of exhortations,

applications, or petitions, to certain insensible people.

_Follow the owl, she will lead thee to ruin._ (Arabic.) A most

picturesque proverb, giving its own scenery with it. But it strikes one

as curious that this should come from the East which seems so familiar

to our apprehensions. Not only are the habits of the owl the same, but

the owl is equally regarded as the symbol of a purblind fool. Yet, on

the other hand, the owl of classic times was a type of wisdom.

_Two of a trade can never agree._ It is curious, and, in most instances,

highly gratifying, to see how many of these sayings of our ancestors are

becoming falsified by the great advances made, of late years, in social

feelings and arrangements. Trades' unions, co-operative societies--in

fact, all our great companies prove how well two of a trade can agree;

and so do all combinations of masters or of workmen. Yes, it will be

said, but they "agree," and co-operate for their mutual interests, and

they do not agree with those opposed to them. Of course not; the

sensible thing, therefore, is obvious, to enlarge the sphere of good

understanding and reciprocal fair dealing in matters of business, and

thus to supersede the bad feeling and injury of greedy rivalries and

selfish antagonisms.

_There was a wife who always took what she had, and never wanted._

(Scotch.) A good practical advice, showing the importance of using what

you possess, instead of hoarding it, or reserving it, even when most

needed, for some possible contingency, which may never occur. It seems

to refer chiefly to articles of dress, clothing, domestic utensils, or

other household matters.

_Dat Deus immiti cornua curta bovi_; God curtails the power to do evil

in those who desire to do it.

_There is honor among thieves._ This is, no doubt, quite true, though

you must be a thief yourself to derive much benefit from it. They stand

by their order. The suggestion is--since there is honor towards each

other among the most unprincipled classes, surely Mr. Sweepstakes, and

Mr. Moses Battledore, who are both respectable members of society, and

belong to clubs, would not cheat me. But this does not logically follow;

for we by no means know how far the respectable individual makes his

view of his own interest an excuse to himself for an occasional

exception to the code of morality he professes. There's honor among

thieves; and there are thieves (here and there) among

honorably-connected men, "all honorable men." Life is a "mingled yarn"

of good and evil; and society is a motley aggregate of all sorts of

yarns.

_A rose-bud fell to the lot of a monkey._ (Arabic.) The monkey

appreciated the rose-bud quite as much as swine appreciate the pearls

which are said to be cast before them.

_Of what use to a fool is all the trouble he gives himself?_ (Chinese.)

None whatever; but his folly may cause a vast deal of trouble to people

of sense. One false move of an utterly incompetent man in office, and

the force of the saying becomes very expansive.

_There are no lies so wicked as those which have some foundation._

(Chinese.) A saying which is but too true, and which ought to be

universally understood in society, as some protection against slander.

_Many preparations before the sour plum sweetens._ (Chinese.) Great

results do not hastily ripen; great and important changes must undergo a

gradual process.

_Spare the rod and spoil the child._ This seems to be derived from the

old Spanish proverb, which we find in Don Quixote, "He loves thee well

who makes thee weep." They are unkindly and dangerous maxims, which tend

to inculcate severity, and to justify harsh treatment upon the plea of

future advantage. We readily admit that nothing can well be worse than a

"spoilt child," nor can a more injurious system exist than that of

pampering or spoiling--except the direct opposite, that of frequently

causing tears.

_A tea-spoonful of honey is worth a pound of gall._ An indiscriminate

use of the sweets of life is a stupidity and an injury; but the

judicious use of them is of far more service in the production of good

results, than the bitter lessons which are often considered to be of

most advantage. It is better to soften the heart than to harden it. "A

soft word turneth away wrath."

_What the ant collects in a year, the priest eats up in a night._

(Arabic.) The tithe-taxes, and other revenues of the state-clergy,

derived from the industry of the working classes, are not very tenderly

dealt with in this proverb.

_The walls have ears._ (Arabic.) This is one of the many instances of

our homeliest proverbs in every-day use, being derived from the East. No

doubt the saying, that "Little pitchers have great ears" (in allusion to

the sharpness of hearing in children), is also derived from the domestic

utensils of foreign countries in ancient times. The British Museum

contains many such little pitchers, as well as the Foundling Hospital.

_The ox that ploughs must not be muzzled._ (Arabic.) The laborer ought

to be allowed freedom of speech, or at least free breathing. We have a

nautical saying akin to this--"A sailor never works well if he does not

grumble."

_Three united men will ruin a town._ (Arabic.) The power of combination

was never more excellently expressed.

_He begins the quarrel who gives the second blow._ (Spanish.) There are

but few who possess the requisite degree of wise and kindly forbearance

and magnanimous self-command implied in this saying. To strike again, or

rather (as the _blow_ is figurative) to retort an angry word, is natural

to most men; to preserve a reproving silence, or administer a dignified

rebuke, is in the power only of great characters, and not with them at

all times. But it is quite possible, as we live in a very pugnacious

world, that such forbearance should not be thrown away upon every one,

or the small majority of the magnanimous would soon be beaten out of

existence. The above proverb, we believe, is originally Spanish, and,

coming from a people so proverbially revengeful, seems very

extraordinary, and only to be accounted for as the result of an abstract

thought of some lofty-minded hidalgo, speculating on friendship. Don

Quixote might have said it.

_A stitch in time saves nine._ One of the most sensible and practical of

all proverbs, as every body's experience can avouch. Yet, in defiance of

all their own experience, how many people we often see who constantly

neglect the stitch in time! They do not forget it, or overlook it; and

when they do, if you point it out to them, they still neglect it.

_Chi non sa niente, non dubita di niente_; he who knows nothing, doubts

of nothing. The converse is equally true. He who knows much, is careful

how he doubts of any thing. This is peculiarly inculcated, at the

present time, by the extraordinary discoveries and success of science.

From the Ladies' Companion.

A CHAPTER ON WATCHES.

We have no means of telling how long a period elapsed from that primal

time when the "evening and the morning made the first day," ere man's

ingenuity devised a means of calculating the passing by of those

precious moments of which his duration is composed, in order to

economize them to the purposes of life. Shadows by day and stars at

night appear to have indexed the flight of time for the ancient Hebrews;

though it is very evident that long before the sun-dial of Ahaz was made

memorable by the Prophet Isaiah, the Chaldeans, accustomed to calculate

eclipses, and other astronomical phenomena, must have been in possession

of some much more accurate instrument for its computation.

Days, months, and years, are constantly referred to in the books of the

Old Testament, but nothing is said of more minute divisions of time,

save that of the day into the natural ones of morning, noon, eventide,

and night, until Judea became tributary to Rome, when three of the

Evangelists, in describing the crucifixion, and the supernatural

darkness subsequent to that event, remark that it lasted from the sixth

_hour_ to the ninth; and it is on record, that the Clepsydra, or

water-clock, (said by Vitrivius to have been invented by one Ctesibius

of Alexandria, in the reign of Ptolemy Evergetes), was introduced at

Rome by P. Cornelius Scipio Nasica, in the 595th year of the city, and

consequently many years before the birth of Christ. This simple

time-keeper was so constructed, that the water issued, drop by drop,

through a hole in the vessel, and fell into another, in which a light

floating body marked the height of the water as it rose, and by this

means the time that had elapsed. These instruments, we are told, were

set full of water in the courts of judicature, and by them the lawyers

pleaded; in order, as Phavorinus tells us, to prevent babbling, and

cause those who spoke to be brief in their speeches. Hour, or

sand-glasses, are also said to have originated at Alexandria, and to

have been introduced into domestic use amongst the Romans eight years

afterwards, or 158 years before the Christian era.

The earliest attempt at measuring time in this country appears to have

been on the part of Alfred the Great, by means of waxen tapers. The

exact period when those direct ancestors of our subject, clocks, or, as

they were primitively called, horologes, came into use, is one of those

things over which time has cast so thick a veil, that not even the

researches of the encyclopaedists can penetrate it. By some, the

invention of clocks with wheels is ascribed to Pacificus, archdeacon of

Verona, as early as the ninth century. And though we read that clocks

(without water) were set up in churches toward the end of the twelfth,

the author of the "Divina Commedia" is the first writer on record, who

distinctly applies the term horologium to a clock that struck the hours;

and he was born 1265, and died 1321.

In 1288, during the reign of the 1st Edward, the _English Justinian_, as

he has been called, it is said that a fine levied on a lord chief

justice was applied to the purpose of furnishing the famous clock-house

near Westminster Hall with an horologe, which it is farther stated was

the work of an English artist.

Mention is also made of the setting up of a clock in Canterbury

Cathedral about the same period, and in that of Wells in 1325. So that

those three Dutch horologiers, from Delft, who came over (as Rymer tells

us) at the invitation of Edward III. in 1368, were not, as some

imagined, the introducers of the art, though they very possibly helped

us to improve it. Up to the time when Henry de Wic astonished the

Emperor Charles V. with those seemingly living toys with which he was

wont to surround himself after dinner, and watch the beating and

revolving of their curious machinery, those rude prototypes of our

subject, which are said to have resembled small table clocks rather than

watches, and yet were true specimens, we imagine, since they continued

going in a horizontal position, which is the only mechanical distinction

between a watch and clock--up to this period, we were about to say,

clocks appear to have endured a very ascetic existence, living in tall

houses, built on purpose for them, or shut up in church towers and

monastic buildings--

"Fell sickerer[19] was his crowning in his loge,

As is a clock, or any _abbey orloge_,"

wrote Chaucer in the fourteenth century. And it is not until nearly the

end of the fifteenth that we find them domesticated in houses.

From a description of some, which appear in an inventory of articles in

the king's palaces of Westminster and Hampton Court, copied by Strutt,

the pendules of the period must have been equally ornate with those in

modern drawing-rooms, and much more curious. Thus one, we are told, not

only showed the course of the planets, and the days of the year, but was

richly gilt, and enamelled, and ornamented with the king's (Henry the

Eighth's) coat of arms; it also possessed a chime.

Speaking of this monarch reminds us, that previous to the scattering of

the treasures of Strawberry Hill, there was preserved in the library

there a little clock, of silver gilt, the gift of Henry, on the morning

of his marriage, to the ill-fated Anne Boleyn. It was elaborately chased

and engraved, and adorned with fleurs-de-lys, and other heraldic

devices, and had on the top a lion supporting the arms of England. The

gilded weights represented _true-lovers-knots_, inclosing the initials

of Henry and Anne; and one bore the inscription, "The most happye," the

other the royal motto. Though more than three hundred years had passed

since the tragic ending of time with its original possessor, it was

still going when the ivory hammer of the famous Robins struck it down to

another new and more fortunate owner, About this period watches are said

to have been in use; and in the Holbein chamber of the collection just

mentioned, a bust of the royal _wife-slayer_, carved in box-wood,

represented him with a dial suspended on his breast. The earliest watch

known was one in Sir Ashton Lever's Museum, which bore date 1541; but

from various imperfections in the workmanship, they were not very

generally used till towards the end of Elizabeth's reign.

Shakspeare frequently mentions the clock, and in "Twelfth Night" he

makes Malvolio--"While exclaim, in his babblings of fancied greatness

I, perchance, _wind up my watch_, or play with some rich jewel," an

expression that would lead us to suppose that they were even then

regarded rather as toys or ornaments than things of necessary use.

Archbishop Parker, in 1575, left by will to the Bishop of Ely his staff

of Indian cane, with a _watch_ in the top of it; a position that savors

more of whim than utility. Yet the excellence of some of these ancient

timekeepers is remarkable; for Derham, in his "Artificial Clockmaker,"

mentions a watch of Henry VIII., which was in order in 1714, and of

which Dr. Demanbray had often heard Sir Isaac Newton and Demoivre speak;

and the old wooden-framed clock of Peterborough Cathedral, which,

instead of the usual key or winch, is wound up by long handles or

spikes--a sufficient proof of its antiquity--still strikes, says

Denison, upon a bell of considerable size.

Guy Fawkes carried a watch in a more practical spirit than Malvolio or

Archbishop Parker; Stowe tells us, one was found upon him which he and

Percy had bought the day before, "to try conclusions for the long and

short burning of the touch-wood with which he had prepared to give fire

to the train of powder;" a proof that even in the third year of the

reign of James I. watches were not commonly worn, or the circumstance

would not have been mentioned.

In the next reign, however, we find the London "Clock-Makers' Company,"

incorporated 1631--a sign of the increased use of these instruments, and

the growing importance of their manufacture; and as this charter

prohibits the importation of clocks, watches, and alarms, it proves that

we had even then artists sufficiently skilful in the various

manipulations requisite in the construction of these articles, to render

us independent of foreign workmanship.

It is a singular feature in the history of this branch of art, that it

has remained until very lately concentrated in the metropolis; besides

which, Liverpool and Coventry are said to be the only places in England

where a complete watch can be manufactured. At the latter place the

business has only been introduced since the commencement of the present

century, but the number of persons employed are said to equal the number

in London.

But before passing from this event in the history of our subject (the

incorporation of a company for the protection of their manufacture in

the reign of Charles I.), we may as well describe a watch of the period,

which a few years before the publication of the "Encyclopaedia

Londinensis" (in 1811) had been in the possession of the proprietor. It

was dug up but a few years previously, near the site of the ancient

castle of Winchester, where it had probably lain from the time of

Cromwell, who, it is well known, destroyed that edifice. It was of an

octagon form, and had no minute hand; a piece of catgut supplied the

place of a chain; it required winding up every twelve hours, had no

balance spring, and appeared never to have had one; and it shut like a

hunting-watch without any glass.

But to compensate for this interior rudeness in its construction, the

lid and bottom of the case, as well as the dial-plate, were of silver,

very neatly engraved, with pieces of Scripture history in the centre,

and in the compartments the four Evangelists, and St. Peter, St. Paul,

St. James, and St. Jude: it had no date.

The reign of Charles II., who (like his namesake the emperor, in whose

time they first appeared) is said to have been very partial to these

instruments, was remarkable for the improvements made in them. Spring

pocket-watches were invented by Hooke, 1658; and repeaters were

introduced, one of the first of which Charles sent as a present to Louis

XIV. of France. According to some authorities, _reproduced_ would be the

juster phrase here, for it is stated in "Memoirs of Literature," that

some of the most ancient watches were strikers, and that such having

been stolen both from Charles V. and Louis XI. whilst they were in a

crowd, the thief was detected by their striking the hour!

Perhaps the most remarkable repeating watch extant, is that in the

Academy of Sciences at St. Petersburg, and which, like the old Nuremberg

watches, is about the size of an egg: within is represented the holy

sepulchre, with the sentinels, and the stone at the mouth; and while the

spectator is admiring this curious piece of mechanism, the stone is

suddenly removed, the sentinels drop down, the angels appear, the women

enter the tomb, and the same chant is heard which is performed in the

Greek Church on Easter Eve.

Germany, by the way, has always been famous for the manufacture of

clocks and watches, these latter claiming Nuremberg for their

birthplace; and from this circumstance, and their oval shape,

Dopplemayer tells us they were originally known as Nuremberg _animated

eggs_.

At present this branch of horometry is chiefly to be found on the other

side of the Alps, at or near Geneva, and at Chaux de Fond, in the

principality of Neufchatel, where vast numbers of watches are

manufactured. But the wooden clocks, which tick on every cottage wall,

and which are erroneously called Dutch, are in fact German, and are

nearly all made in the Black Forest, the village of Freyburg being the

centre of the manufacture, whence it is said 180,000 wooden clocks on an

average are yearly exported.

The Swiss, or _Geneva_ watches, as they are commonly called, owing to

the poverty of the workmen, the employment of women, and the subdivision

of labor, which is carried to even a greater extent than with us, sell

at a much lower price than those made in England; but an English watch

has hitherto been a desideratum in every part of the world. Here, at

present, the term watch-maker is no longer applicable, every portion of

the instrument being the work of a different artisan, and the separate

parts are often sent hundreds of miles, to meet in the metropolis, and

make a whole of excellent workmanship. There are innumerable places in

which some branch or other of the manufacture is carried on; but the

best movements are made at Prescot, in Lancashire, while the town of

Whitchurch, in Hampshire, is employed wholly in making hands. In London,

Clerkenwall Green has long been the resort of artificers employed in the

various nice and delicate manipulations requisite in the construction of

our subject: here, slide-makers, jewellers, motion-makers,

wheel-cutters, cap-makers, dial-plate-makers, the painter, the

case-maker, the joint-finisher, the pendent-maker, the engraver, the

piercer, the escapement-maker, the spring-maker, the chain-maker, the

finisher, the gilder, the fusee-cutter, the hand-maker, the glass-maker,

and pendulum spring wire-drawer, are all located; for, owing to the

minute division of labor, which tends greatly to facilitate its

execution after the movements (which have previously passed through

thirteen workmen's hands in the provinces) are received in town, the

watch progresses through those of these other twenty-one artificers

before it comes forth complete.

Owing to this delicate and varied workmanship, materials originally not

worth sixpence are frequently converted into watches worth a hundred

pounds and more, so costly may their appendages be made. But in all

these different branches of a business which maintains thousands of

families, the only part of it which falls to women in this country is

the polishing of the cases, which the casemakers' wives are sometimes

employed to do.

Perhaps no object of man's ingenuity has been made the exponent of so

many grave morals as the _watch_. Poets and philosophers have managed

that its beatings should be only a little less gloomy to the imagination

than the associations of a passing bell; but Paley has thrown a glory

round this gloom, and aggrandized it from a peevish reminder of passing

time into a fair argument of a Creator's presence, in the delicate and

wonderful machinery of nature, which could no more come by chance than

could this little instrument have been formed without a contriver.

What the author of the "Old Church Clock" has said of that branch of our

subject, may be equally applied to this--"there is no dead thing so like

a living one." Day by day, year by year, its iron heart throbs on, some

of them surviving, as we have seen, for centuries, though they are said

to beat 17,160 times in an hour. Well would it be for us if the

time-keeper in our bosoms, beating momently the escape of our allotted

term, acted as lightly on the frame; but all its emotions help to wear

this out.

In the dawn of its appearance, in an age when every science that set men

wondering was in some degree regarded as the work of magic, what a

sensation must these "animated eggs" have occasioned, and how

suggestive! unless the fanciful belief of some of the early fathers of

the church, who averred that gems and precious metals were first made

known to mortals by fallen angels, who also inspired the desire to

profit by, and be adorned with them, had any thing to do with the

tabooing of evil by holy signatures--how suggestive are the quaint

gravings of saints and scriptural subjects on the cover of the watch dug

up at Winchester, of the antique custom of inscribing trinkets with

sacred symbols, and so converting them into amulets; a custom which the

Greeks and Romans borrowed from the Egyptians, and which the early

Christians perpetuated after them.

We have seen the watch, originally oval, take an octagon form; after

which it subsided into its present shape, the only variation being in

size, and degrees of roundness.

At present watches are frequently made not thicker than a crown piece,

and yet perform their functions with exactness; nay, there are some with

perfect works, compressed into a smaller compass than a shilling! A

friend of the writer's saw one, not long since, set in a ring, the hands

and figures being composed of brilliants, upon a dial of blue enamel;

and at the recent exhibition one filled the place usually occupied by a

seal at the end of a pencil-case, and another appeared as an appendage

to a lady's bracelet. There was also a large silver watch, such as

mariners are fond of wearing, immersed in a vase of water, and yet

impervious to any ill effects.

Our subject is one which grows under our hands, and we might go on _ad

libitum_ describing their different idiosyncracies; for watches, like

individuals, have their several temperaments and ways of going. We have

all met with _fast watches_ and slow ones, and some (a disposition they

are apt to contract from their wearers) are very irregular--varieties of

character, which so puzzled their first owner, the Emperor Charles V.,

who amused himself on his retirement to the monastery of St. John, by

endeavoring to keep in order these by-gone companions of his

dinner-table, that they produced a reflection on the absurdity of his

attempts to keep together the powers of Europe, when even these little

pieces of mechanism baffled him.

* * * * *

American women have less courtesy than any others in the world. A

thousand rules of deference are established by concessions of the other

sex, which they enforce with ungracious arrogance, as if they were but

recognitions of "inalienable rights." This is their offence to all

well-bred Europeans.--_Correspondent London Morning Post._

FOOTNOTES:

[19] Sickerness--steady, secure.

From Sharpe's Magazine.

FETE DAYS AT ST. PETERSBURG.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OF ALEXANDER DUMAS

BY JANE STRICKLAND.

New-Year's day and the Benediction of the Waters provide the inhabitants

of St. Petersburg with two great national festivals, in which all

classes share in the pleasures and devotion of the sovereign. The first

is an imperial fete, the second an imposing religious ceremony.

On New-Year's day, in virtue of an old and touching custom by which the

Emperor and Empress of Russia are designated by their poorest subjects

Father and Mother, these potentates at the commencement of the year

receive their children as their own invited guests. Their family being

too vast to invite by name, they adopt the simple but efficacious plan

of scattering about the streets of their capital twenty-five thousand

cards of invitation, indicative that they will be at home to such a

number of their children. These cards bear no address, but they give

admission to the bearers to the splendid saloons of the Winter Palace

without the slightest distinction of rank or wealth.

It was thus that the Emperor Alexander, according to custom, kept the

first day of the year 1825, the last he was ever destined to see. The

rumor of the conspiracy that embittered the closing months of his life

and reign, though it had reached his ears and troubled his repose, did

not appear to him any reason for depriving his subjects of their annual

visit to their sovereign. From these unknown guests the Russian Autocrat

felt assured he had nothing to fear. With them he was not only popular

but adored. He therefore directed the Master of the Police to order no

alteration in the usual costume of the male part of the company, whom he

was to admit in masks according to custom on these occasions. In the

darkest annals of barbarism, despotic sovereigns dreaded and often found

the dagger of the assassin in the hands of some member of their own

family. Civilization, however limited, changes the objects of suspicion

to the aristocracy, who are always, under these unfortunate

constitutions, of the military profession. Now the want of the

counterpoise of the middle classes creates this secret but perpetual

warfare between the absolute monarch and the nobility--the nobility who

in free countries are the natural bulwark of the throne. In Russia the

Autocrat is never afraid of the multitude, with whom he holds a twofold

claim to their veneration, as supreme pontiff, or head of the Church,

and Czar.

The cards of invitation, being transferable, are, as a matter of course,

purchaseable; and among his masked guests who were privileged to shake

hands with Alexander, some cowardly assassin might take that opportunity

to murder the sovereign; yet he, with a firm but touching reliance on

God, ordered at seven o'clock on the New-Year's evening, the gates of

the Winter Palace to be thrown open as usual, to his motley company.

No extra precautions were taken by the police; the sentinels were on

duty, according to custom, at the palace gates, but the Emperor was

without any guards in the interior of the imperial residence, vast as

the Tuileries. In the absence of all precaution or even regulations for

the behavior of an undisciplined crowd, it was surprising what natural

politeness effected. Veneration for the presence of the sovereign was

alone sufficient to produce good breeding; there was no pushing nor

striving, nor clamor, and the entrance was made with as little noise as

if gratitude for the favor accorded to the guests had induced each to

give a precautionary admonition to his neighbor.

While the thronging thousands were gaining admission to his palace, the

Emperor Alexander was seated by the Empress in the Hall of St. George in

the midst of the imperial family, when the door was opened to the sound

of music, for the saloons were filled with his visitors, and a grand

_coup d'oeil_ of grandees, peasants, princesses, and grisettes was

discerned. At this moment the Emperor advanced and gave his hand to the

English, French, Spanish, and Austrian ambassadors, the representatives

of their several sovereigns. He then moved alone to the door, that his

guests might behold in their sovereign and host the father of his

people. It was a moment anarchy was said to have dedicated to his

assassination, and that parricidal and regicidal act could have been

easily effected at such a juncture had it really been in contemplation.

Alexander was no longer in appearance a melancholy and suffering

invalid, he looked happy and smiling; and if his smile was

counterfeited, he wore the mask ably and well. The instant the Autocrat

appeared, the motley group made a forward movement, and then a

precipitate retreat. The danger vanished with them. The Emperor regarded

the retiring waves of this human sea with imperturbable serenity, a

remarkable feature in his character, a moral re-action, which a

courageous mind can alone bestow, and which he had shown on several

trying occasions. One of these was at a ball given by M. Caulincourt,

Duke of Vicenza, the French Ambassador; the other was at a fete at

Zakret, near Wilna.

The ball was at its height, when the ambassador was informed that the

house was on fire; fearful that the news of the conflagration might

occasion more ill consequences than the fire itself, he posted an

aide-de-camp at every door, and ordered his people to keep the

misfortune a profound secret, after which he communicated the accident

in a low voice to the Emperor, and assured him that no one should be

permitted to withdraw till he and the imperial family were in perfect

safety; he was going to see the fire extinguished, and he hoped the

efforts made to get it under would be successful; adding, that even if a

report should circulate in the saloons as to this startling fact, no one

would credit it while they saw the Emperor and his family still there.

"Very well, then, I will remain," coolly remarked the Emperor; and when

Caulincourt returned some time after to announce the extinction of the

fire, he found the Russian Autocrat dancing a polonaise.

The guests of the ambassador heard on the morrow that their festivities

had been kept over the mouth of a volcano.

At the fete held at Zakret not only the life but the empire of Alexander

was at stake. In the middle of the dance he was apprised that the

advanced guard of a guest he had forgotten to invite had passed the

Niemen. This was the Emperor Napoleon, his old host at Erfurth, who

might momentarily be expected to enter the hall, followed by six hundred

thousand dancers. Alexander gave his orders with great coolness,

chatting while he issued them with his aide-de-camps. He walked about,

praised the manner in which the saloons were lighted, which he declared

was only second to the beautiful moonlight, supped, and remained till

dawn. His gay manner and the serenity of his countenance prevented the

guests from even suspecting the nature of the communication he had

received, and the entrance of the French into the city was the first

intimation the inhabitants had received of their approach.

He was in imminent peril in this Polish city, from which his great

self-command delivered him. His retreat at early morning was made before

the approach of an enemy he had hitherto found invincible. Very

different might have been the result of Napoleon's campaign in Russia,

if the inhabitants of Wilna had known during the fete of Zakret of his

vicinity.

These incidents naturally occurred to the guests of the Emperor

Alexander, during this New-Year's day festival, when they beheld him

approach alone to show himself to the multitude, amongst whom he had

reason to believe many conspirators, or even assassins lurked. If such

indeed were there, the calm serenity of his countenance disarmed them,

and none dared raise an arm against the life he fearlessly trusted, if

not to their loyalty at least to their honor.

Indeed the suffering and melancholy Emperor, the last time he received

his people, seemed to have shaken off his lassitude and depression, and

appeared full of life and energy, traversing with rapidity the immense

saloons of the Winter Palace. He led off the sort of galoppe peculiar to

the Russian Court, which, however, terminated about nine o'clock.

At ten, the illuminations of the Hermitage being finished, those persons

who had cards for the spectacle went there. Twelve negroes, superbly

arrayed in rich oriental costumes, kept the doors of the theatre, to

admit or restrain the crowd, and examine the authenticity of the

vouchers of the guests. Here the admission was not promiscuous, a

certain number alone being allowed to be present at the banquet.

Upon entering the theatre, the spectators found themselves in a land of

enchantment--a vast hall encircled with tubes of crystal, bent in every

possible way, meeting at top in order to form the ceiling, united by

silver threads of imperceptible fineness, behind which hung 10,000

colored lamps, whose light, reflected and refracted by these transparent

columns, illuminated the gardens, groves, flowers, cascades, and

fountains, like an enchanted landscape, which seen across this veil of

light resembled the poetical phantasm of a dream. The splendid

illuminations cost twelve thousand roubles, and lasted two months.

At eleven a flourish of musical instruments announced the arrival of the

Emperor, who entered with the Empress and the imperial family, the

ambassadors, the ambassadresses, the officers of the household, and the

ladies in waiting, who all took their places at the middle supper-table;

two other tables were filled by six hundred guests, mostly composed of

the first-class nobility. The Emperor alone remained standing, moving

about the tables, conversing by turns with his numerous guests.

Nothing could exceed the magnificent effect produced by the banquet, and

the appearance of the court; the sovereign and his officers and nobility

covered with gold and embroidery, the Empress and her ladies glittering

with diamonds and splendid velvets, tissues, and satins. No other fete

in Europe could produce such a grand _coup d'oeil_ as the New-Year's

fete at the Hermitage. At the conclusion of the banquet the Court

returned to the Saloon of St. George, where the music struck up a

polonaise, which was led off by the Emperor. This dance was his farewell

to his guests, for as soon as it was finished he withdrew. The departure

of their sovereign gave pleasure to those loyal subjects who trembled

for his personal safety; but the courageous and ever paternal confidence

reposed in his subjects by Alexander, turned away from him every

murderous weapon. No one could resolve to assassinate a kind father in

the midst of his children, for as such the Emperor had received his

numerous guests.

The second annual fete was of a religious character, "The Benediction of

the Waters," to which the recent disastrous calamity of the most

terrible inundation on record in Russia, the preceding year, had given

deeper solemnity. The preparations were made with an activity tempered

by care, which denoted the national character to be essentially

religious. Upon the Neva a great pavilion was erected of a circular

form, pierced with eight openings, decorated by four paintings, crowned

with a cross; to this pavilion access was given by a jetty forming the

hermitage. The temporary edifice, on the morning of the ceremony, was to

have its pavement of ice cut through in order to permit the Patriarch to

reach the water. The cold was already twenty degrees below zero, when at

nine o'clock in the morning the whole population of St. Petersburg

assembled themselves on the frozen waters of the Neva, then a solid mass

of crystal. At half-past eleven the Empress and Grand-Duchesses took

their places in the glass balcony of the Hermitage, and their appearance

announced to the crowd that the _Te Deum_ was concluded. The whole corps

of the Imperial Guards, amounting to forty thousand men, marched to the

sound of martial music and formed in line of battle on the river, from

the hotel of the French embassy to the fortress. The palace gates opened

as soon as this military evolution was effected, and the banners, sacred

pictures, and the choristers of the chapel, appeared preceding the

Patriarch and his clergy; then came the pages and the colors of the

different regiments of guards, borne by their proper officers; then the

Emperor, supported by the Grand-Dukes Nicholas and Michael, followed by

the officers of his household, his aide-de-camps and generals. As soon

as the Emperor reached the door of the pavilion, which was nearly filled

with priests and banners, the Patriarchs gave the signal, and the sweet

solemn chant of more than a hundred voices rose to heaven, unaccompanied

by music indeed, yet forming a divine harmony hardly to be surpassed on

earth. During the prayer, which lasted twenty minutes, the Emperor stood

bareheaded, dressed in his uniform, without fur or any defence from the

piercing cold, running more risk by this disregard to climate, than if

he had faced the fire of a hundred pieces of artillery in the front of

battle. The spectators, enveloped in fur mantles and caps, presented a

complete contrast to the religious imprudence of their rash sovereign,

who had been bald from his early youth.

As soon as the second _Te Deum_ was concluded, the Patriarch took a

silver cross from the hand of the young chorister, and encircled by the

kneeling crowd, plunged it through the opening made in the ice into the

waters below. He then filled a vase up with the consecrated element,

which he presented to the Emperor. After this ceremonial of blessing the

waters, came the benediction of the standards, which were reverently

inclined towards the Patriarch for that purpose. A sky-rocket was

immediately let off from the pavilion, and its silvery smoke was

answered by a terrible explosion, for the whole artillery of the

fortress gave from their metallic throats a loud _Te Deum_, and these

salvos were heard three times during the benediction of the standards;

at the third, the Emperor commenced his return to the palace.

He was more melancholy than usual, for during this religious ceremony he

felt no need of courage or presence of mind; he was secured by the

natural veneration of a superstitious people. He knew it, and,

therefore, wore no mask in the semblance of a joyless smile.

On the same day, this imposing ceremonial is used at Constantinople,

only the winter is a mere name and the water has no ice. The Patriarch

stands on the deck of a vessel, and drops his silver cross into the calm

blue waves of the Bosphorus, which a skilful diver restores to him

before it reaches the bottom. To these religious ceremonies succeed

sports and pastimes of all kinds. Booths and barracks are erected on the

frozen Neva from quay to quay, Russian mountains, down which sledges

slide with inconceivable velocity, and the Carnival commences with as

much zest as in cities enjoying a southern temperature. Plays are

performed on the ice, and curious pantomimes, in which a marmot performs

the part of a baby very cleverly, while the man who shows him off under

the character of the good father of the family, finds resemblances in

this black-nosed imp to all his supposed human relatives, to the

infinite delight of the spectators.

Sleighing on the ice is, as in Canada, a favorite diversion with the

Russians, whose sledges are lined with fur and ornamented with silver

bells and ribbons of every color. Sometimes a wind loaded with vapor

puts an end to these diversions by rendering the ice unsafe, in which

case they are interdicted by the police, and the sports and pastimes of

the people are transferred to _terra firma_; but the Carnival is

considered to come to an abrupt conclusion if this misfortune occurs at

its commencement, for the Neva is to the inhabitants of St. Petersburg

what Vesuvius is to the Neapolitans, and the absence of the ice robs

their Saturnalia of its greatest attraction. In countries where the

Greek religion is the national standard of faith, Lent is preceded by

the same unbounded festivity as in those which are Roman Catholic; but

the Court does not display in these days so much barbarous magnificence

as in those earlier times when civilization was unknown. The Carnival

was, however, held during the last century by Anna Ivanovna, in a style

surpassing that of her ancestors. This pleasure-loving princess, the

daughter of the elder brother of Peter the Great, covered her usurpation

of a throne she had snatched not only from the decendants of her mighty

uncle, but also from her own elder sister and niece, by conducing to the

popular amusements of her people, who in their turn forgot her defective

title to the throne. This popular female sovereign founded the largest

bell in the world, and gave the most magnificent Carnival ever held in

Russia. Thus she maintained her sway by the aid of pleasure and

devotion, a twofold cord her subjects never broke. In 1740 Anna

Ivanovna resolved to surpass every preceding Carnival by her unique

manner of providing her people with amusement during this merry season.

It was customary for the sovereign of Russia to be attended by a dwarf,

who united the privileged character of a jester to the tiny proportions

of a little child. This empress possessed two of these diminutive

personages, and she chose for her own amusement and that of her loving

subjects, that they should be married during this Carnival, and "whether

nature did this match contrive," or it was the consequence of her own

despotic will, cannot be known without a peep into the jealously guarded

archives of Russia; but the nuptials of these sports of nature was the

ostensible cause of the fete. This the Autocrat gave on a new and

splendid scale. She directed her governors to send her two natives of

the hundred districts they ruled in her name, clothed in their national

costume, and with the animals they were accustomed to use on their

journeys. The idea was certainly a brilliant one, and worthy of the

sovereign lady of so many nations, tongues, and languages.

Anna Ivanovna was punctually obeyed, and at the appointed time a motley

procession, including the purest types of the Caucasian race and the

ugliest of the Mongolian, astonished the eyes of the Empress, who had

scarcely known the greater part of these distant tribes by name. There

she beheld the Kamtchadale with his sledge drawn by dogs, the Russian

Laplander with his reindeer, the Kalmuck with his cows, the Tartar on

his horse, and the native of Bochara with his camel, the Ostiak on his

clogs. Then for the first time, the beautiful Georgian and Circassian,

with their dark ringlets and unrivalled features, looked with

astonishment upon the red hair of the Finlander. The gigantic Cossack of

the Ukraine eyed with contempt the pigmy Samoiede--and in fact, for the

first time were brought into contact by the will of their sovereign

lady, who classed each race under one of four banners, representing

spring, summer, autumn, and winter; and these two hundred persons,

during eight days, paraded the streets of St. Petersburg, to the

infinite delight of the population, who had never seen the power of the

throne displayed in a manner so agreeable to their taste before.

Upon the wedding day of her dwarfs, these important personages had been

attended to the altar by this singular national procession, where they

plighted their faith in the presence of the Empress and all her Court,

after which they heard Mass, and then, accompanied by their numerous

escort, took possession of the palace prepared for them by the direction

of their imperial mistress. This palace was not the least fanciful part

of the fete. It was entirely composed of ice, and resembled crystal in

its brilliancy and fine cutting and polish. This beautiful fabric was

fifty-two feet in length and twenty in width; the roof, the floor, the

furniture, chandeliers, and even the nuptial bed, were formed of the

same cold, glittering, and transparent materials. The doors, the

galleries, and the fortifications,--even the six pieces of cannon that

guarded this magical palace, were of ice; one of these, charged with a

single ice-bullet, and fired by the aid of a pound of powder, perforated

at seventy paces a plank of twelve inches thickness. This was done to

salute the bridal party, and welcome them home. The most curious piece

of mechanism, and which pleased the Russians the most, was a colossal

elephant, mounted by an armed Persian, and led by twelve slaves. This

gigantic beast threw from his trunk a column of water by day, and at

night a stream of fire, uttering from time to time roars which were

heard from one end of St. Petersburg to the other. These noble roars

were produced by twelve Russians concealed in the body and legs of the

phantom elephant, whose costly housings hid the men whose noise so

delighted their countrymen. This Carnival of the fete-loving feany male

usurper has never been surpassed by Russian sovereign, though, with the

exception of the assembly of her distant subjects, its taste was

barbarous enough.

From Household Words.

RAINBOW MAKING.

It is a great idea--too large to be arrived at but by degrees--that the

fleece of sheep can clothe nations of men. The fleece of a sheep, when

pulled and spread out, looks much larger than while covering the mutton;

but still it is with a sort of despair that we think of the quantity

required, and of the dressing and preparation necessary, for clothing

fifteen million of men in one country, and double the number in another

(to say nothing of the women), and of the number of countries, each

containing its millions, which are incessantly demanding the fleeces of

sheep to clothe their inhabitants. We remember the hill-sides of our own

mountainous districts; and the wide grassy plains of Saxony; and the

boundless table lands of Thibet, and the valleys of Cashmere, all

speckled over with flocks; we think of the Australian sheep-walks, where

there are flocks of such unmanageable size, that the whole sheep is

boiled down for tallow; we think of Prince Esterhazy's reply to the

question of an English nobleman, when shown vast flocks, and asked how

his sheep in Hungary would compare in number with these,--that his

shepherds outnumbered the Englishman's sheep; we think of these things,

and by degrees begin to understand how wool enough may be produced to

furnish the broadcloths and flannels of the world. But the most strong

and agile imagination is confounded when the material of silk is

considered in the same way. Compare a caterpillar with a sheep; compare

the cocoon of a silkworm (the achievement of its life) with the annual

fleece of a sheep; and the supply of silk for the looms of Europe, Asia,

and America, seems a mere miracle. The marvel is the greater, not the

less, when one is in a silk-growing region, attending to the facts and

appearances, than when trying to conceive of them at home. In Lombardy,

we travel from day to day, during the whole month of May, between rows

of mulberry trees, where the peasants are busy providing food for the

worms; a man in the tree stripping off the leaves, and two women below

with sacks, to carry home the foliage. We see what tons of leaves per

mile must be thus gathered daily for weeks together; we go into houses

in every village to inspect the worm; we mount to the flat roofs of the

dwellings, and find in each countless multitudes of the worms; we pass

on, from country to country, till we mount to the hamlets, perched on

the rocky shelves of the Lebanon; and we find every where the insect

secreting its gum, or spinning it forth as silk; we remember that the

same process is going forward in the heart of our Indian Peninsula, and

throughout China; we look at the broad belt round the globe where the

little worm is forming its cocoons; and still we find it impossible to

imagine how enough silk is produced to supply the wants of the world,

from the brocade of the Asiatic potentate to the wedding ribbon of the

English dairy-maid. Nowhere is the speculation more difficult than in a

dye-house at Coventry.

Probably there was as much wonder excited by the same thought, when King

Henry VIII. wore the first pair of silk stockings brought to England

from Spain; and when Francis I. looked after the mulberry trees in

France, and fixed some silk weavers at Lyons; and when our Queen Mary

passed a law forbidding servant-maids to wear ribbons on bonnets; and

when monarch after monarch passed acts to teach how silk should be

boiled, and whence it should be brought, and who should, and who should

not, wear it when wrought; but the perplexity and amazement of king,

lords, and commons could hardly, at any time, have exceeded that of the

humblest visitor of to-day in any dye-house at Coventry. We know

something of the fact of this astonishment; for we have been noting the

wonders that are to be found on the premises of Messrs. Leavesley and

Hands at Coventry.

On entering, we see, ranged along the counters, half round the room,

bundles of glossy silk, of the most brilliant colors. Blues,

rose-colors, greens, lilacs, make a rainbow of the place. It is only two

days since this silk was brought in in a very different condition. The

throwster (to throw, means to twist or twine), after spinning the raw

silk, imported from Italy, Turkey, Bengal, and China, into thread fit

for the loom, sent it here in bundles, gummy, harsh, dingy; except,

indeed, the Italian, which looks, till washed, like fragments of Jason's

fleece. If bundles, and regiments of bundles, like these, come into one

dye-house every few days, to be prepared for the weaving of ribbons

alone, and for the ribbon-weaving of a single town, it is overwhelming

to think of the amount of production required for the broad silk-weaving

of England, of Europe, of the world. Of the silk dyed at Coventry, about

eighty per cent. is used for the ribbon-weaving of the city and

neighborhood; and the quantity averages six tons and a half weekly. Of

the remaining twenty per cent., half is used for the manufacture of

fringes; and the other half goes to Macclesfield, Congleton, and Derby.

The harsh gummy silk that comes in from the throwing mills is boiled,

wrung out, and boiled again. If it wants bleaching, there is a sort of

open oven of a house; a vault in the yard where it is "sulphured." The

heat, and the sensation in the throat, inform us in a moment where we

have got to. When the hanks come forth from this process, every thread

is separated from its neighbor, and the whole bundle is soft, dry, and

glossy. Then follows the dyeing. To make the silk receive the colors, it

is dipped in a mordant in some diluted acid, or solution of metal which

enables the color to bite into the fibre. To make pinks of all shades,

the silk is dipped in diluted tartaric acid for the mordant, and then in

a decoction of safflower for the hue. To make plum-color or puce, indigo

is the dye, with a cochineal. To make black, nitrate of iron first; then

a washing follows; and then a dipping in logwood dye, mixed with soap

and water. For a white, pure enough for ribbons, the silk has to pass

through the three primary colors, yellow, red, and blue. The dipping,

wringing, splashing, stirring, boiling, drying, go on vigorously, from

end to end of the large premises, as may be supposed, when the fact is

mentioned that the daily consumption of water amounts to one hundred

thousand gallons. A reservoir, in the middle of the yard, formerly

supplied the water; but it proved insufficient, or uncertain; and now it

is about to be filled up, and an Artesian well is opened to the depth of

one hundred and ninety-five feet. The dyeing sheds are paved with

pebbles or bricks, crossed with gutters, and variegated with gay

puddles. Stout brick-built coppers are stationed round the place. Above

each copper are cocks, which let in hot and cold water from the pipes

that travel round the walls of the sheds. There are wooden troughs for

the dye; and to these troughs the water is conveyed by spouts. The silk

hangs down into the dye from poles, smoothly turned and uniform, which

are laid across the troughs by the dozen or more at once. These staves

are procured from Derby. They cost from six shillings to twenty-four

shillings per dozen, and constitute an independent subsidiary

manufacture. The silk hanks being suspended from those poles, two men,

standing on either side the trough, take up two poles, souse, and shake,

and plunge the silk, and turn that which had been uppermost under the

surface of the liquor, and pass on to the next two. When done enough,

the silk is wrung out and pressed, and taken to the drying-house. The

heat in that large chamber is about one hundred degrees. On entering it,

everybody begins to cough. The place is lofty and large. The staves,

which are laid across beams, to contain the suspended silk, make little

movable ceilings here and there. This chamber contains five or six

hundred-weights of silk at once. Our minds glance once more towards the

spinning insects on hearing this; and we ask again, how much of their

produce may be woven into fabrics in Coventry alone? We think we must

have made a mistake in setting down the weekly average at six tons and a

half. But there was no mistake. It is really so.

While speaking of weight, we heard something which reminded us of King

Charles I.'s opinions about some practices which were going forward

before our eyes. It appears, that the silk which comes to the dye-house

is heavy with gum, to the amount of one-fourth of its weight. This gum

must be boiled out before the silk can be dyed. But the manufacturers of

cheap goods require that the material shall not be so light as this

process would leave it. It is dipped in well-sugared water, which adds

about eight per cent. to its weight. Many tons of sugar per year are

used as (what the proprietor called) "the silk-dyer's devil's dust." It

was this very practice which excited the wrath of our pious King

Charles, in all his horror of double-dealing. A proclamation of his, of

the date of 1630, declares his fears of the consequences of "a deceitful

handling" of the material, by adding to its weight in dyeing, and

ordains that the whole shall be done as soft as possible; that no black

shall be used but Spanish black, "and that the gum shall be fair boiled

off before dyeing." He found, in time, that he had meddled with a matter

that he did not understand, and had gone too far. Some of the fabrics of

his day required to be made of "hard silk;" and he took back his orders

in 1638, having become, as he said, "better-informed."

From trough to trough we go, breathing steam, and stepping into puddles,

or reeking rivulets rippling over the stones of the pavement; but we are

tempted on, like children, by the charm of the brilliant colors that

flash upon the sight whichever way we turn. What a lilac this is! Is it

possible that such a hue can stand? It could not stand even the drying,

but for the alkali into which it is dipped. It is dyed in orchil first,

and then made bluer, and somewhat more secure, by being soused in a

well-soaped alkaline mixture. That is a good red brown. It is from

Brazil wood, with alum for its mordant. This is a brilliant blue;

indigo, of course? Yes, sulphate of indigo, with tartaric acid. Here are

two yellows: how is that? One is much better than the other; moreover,

it makes a better green; moreover, it wears immeasurably better. But

what is it? The inferior one is the old-fashioned turmeric, with

tartaric acid. And the improved yellow? Oh! we perceive. It is a secret

of the establishment, and we are not to ask questions about it. But

among all these men employed here, are there none accessible to a bribe

from a rival in the art? There is no saying; for the men cannot be

tempted. They do not know, any more than ourselves, what this mysterious

yellow is. But why does it not supersede the old-fashioned turmeric? It

will, no doubt; and it is gaining rapidly upon it; but it takes time to

establish improvements. The improvement in greens, however, is fast

recommending the new yellow. This deep amber is a fine color. We find it

is called California, which has a modern sound in it. This Napoleon blue

(not Louis Napoleon's) is a rich color. It gives a good deal of trouble.

There is actually a precipitation of metal, of tin, upon every fibre, to

make it receive the dye; and then it has to be washed; and then dipped

again, before it can take a darker shade; and afterwards washed again,

over and over, till it is dark enough; when it is finally soused in

water which has fuller's earth in it, to make it soft enough for working

and wear. What is doing with that dirty-white bundle? It is silk of a

thoroughly bad color. Whether it is the fault of the worm, or of the

worm's food, or what, there is no saying--that is the manufacturer's

affair. He sent it here. It is now to be sulphured, and dipped in a very

faint shade of indigo, curdled over with soap. This will improve it, but

not make it equal to a purer white silk. Next, the wet hanks have to be

squeezed in the Archimedean press, and then hung up in that large, hot

drying-room.

One serious matter remains unintelligible to us. Plaid ribbons--that is,

all sorts of checked ribbons--have been in fashion so long now, that we

have had time to speculate (which we have often done), on how they can

possibly be made. About the colors of the warp (the long way of the

ribbon), we are clear enough. But how, in the weft, do the colors duly

return, so as to make the stripes, and therefore the checks, recur at

equal distances? We are now shown how this was done formerly, and how it

is done now. Formerly, the hanks were tied very tightly, at equal

distances, and the alternate spaces closely wrapped round with paper, or

wound round with packthread. This took up a great deal of time. We were

shown a much better plan. A shallow box is made, so as to hold within it

the halves of several skeins of silk; these halves being curiously

twisted, so as to alternate with the other halves when the hanks are

shaken back into their right position for winding. One half being

within the box, and the other hanging out, the lid is bolted down so

tight that the dye cannot creep into the box; and the out-hanging silk

is dipped. So much can be done at once, that the saving of time is very

great, and, judging by the prodigious array of plaid ribbons that we saw

in the looms afterwards, the value of the invention is no trifle. The

name of this novelty is the Clouding Box.

We see a bundle of cotton. What has cotton to do here? It is from

Nottingham--very fine and well twisted. It is a pretty pink, and it

costs one shilling and sixpence per pound to dye. But what is it for?

Ah! that is the question! It is to mix in with silk, to make a cheap

ribbon. Another pinch of devil's dust!

There is a calendering process employed in the final preparation of the

dried silk, by which, we believe, its gloss is improved; but it was not

in operation at the time of our visit. We saw, and watched with great

curiosity, a still later process--more pretty to witness than easy to

achieve--the making up of the hanks. This is actually the most difficult

thing the men have to learn in the whole business. Of course, therefore,

it is no matter for description. The twist, the insertion of the arm,

the jerk, the drawing of the mysterious knot, may be looked at for hours

and days, without the spectator having the least idea how the thing is

done. We went from workman to workman--from him who was making up the

blue, to him who was making up the red--we saw one of the proprietors

make up several hanks at the speed of twenty in four minutes and a half,

and we are no more likely to be able to do it, than if we had never

entered a dye-house. Peeping Tom might spy for very long before he would

be much the wiser; when done, the effect is beautiful. The snaky coils

of the polished silk throw off the light like fragments of mirrors.

Another mysterious process is the marking of the silk which belongs to

each manufacturer. The hanks and bundles are tied with cotton string;

and this string is knotted with knots at this end, at that end, in the

middle, in ties at the sides, with knots numbering from one to fifteen,

twenty, or whatever number may be necessary; and the manufacturer's

particular system of knots is posted in the books with his name, the

quantity of silk sent in, the dye required, and all other particulars.

We were amused to find that there is a particular twist and a particular

dye for the fringe of brown parasols. It is desired that there should be

a claret tint on this fringe, when seen against the light; and here,

accordingly, we find the claret tint. The silk is somewhat dull, from

being hard twisted; it is to be made more lustrous by stretching, and we

accompany it to the stretching machine. There it is suspended on a

barrel and movable pin; by a man's weight applied to a wheel, the pin is

drawn down, the hank stretches, and comes out two or more inches longer

than it went in, and looking perceptibly brighter. A hank of bad silk

snaps under this strain; a twist that will stand it is improved by it.

Looking into a little apartment, as we return through the yard, we find

a man engaged in work which the daintiest lady might long to take out of

his hands. He is making pattern-cards and books. He arranges the shades

of all sorts of charming colors, named after a hundred pretty flowers,

fruits, and other natural productions,--his lemons, lavenders, corn

flowers, jonquils, cherries, fawns, pearls, and so forth; takes a pinch

of each floss, knots it in the middle, spreads it at the ends, pastes

down these ends, and, when he has a row complete, covers the pasted part

with slips of paper, so numbered as that each number stands opposite its

own shade of color. A pattern-book is as good as a rainbow for the

pocket. This looks like a woman's work; but there are no women here. The

men will not allow it. Women cannot be kept out of the ribbon-weaving;

but in the dye-house they must not set foot, though the work, or the

chief part of it, is far from laborious, and requires a good eye and

tact, more than qualities less feminine. We found many apprentices in

the works, receiving nearly half the amount of wages of their qualified

elders. The men earn from ten shillings to thirty shillings a week,

according to their qualifications. Nearly half of the whole number earn

about fifteen shillings a week at the present time.

And, now, we are impatient to follow these pretty silk bundles to the

factory, and see the weaving. It is strange to see, on our way to so

thoroughly modern an establishment, such tokens of antiquity, or

reminders of antiquity, as we have to pass. We pass under St. Michael's

Church, and look up, amazed, to the beauty and loftiness of its tower

and spire; the spire tapering off at a height of three hundred and

twenty feet. The crumbling nature of the stone gives a richness and

beauty to the edifice, which we would hardly part with for such clear

outlines as those of the restored Trinity Church, close at hand. And

then, at an angle of the market-place, there is Tom, peeping past the

corner,--looking out of his window, through his spectacles, with a

stealthy air, which, however ridiculous, makes one thrill, as with a

whiff of the breeze which stirred the Lady Godiva's hair, on that

memorable day, so long ago. It is strange, after this, to see the

factory chimney, straight, tall, and handsome, in its way, with its

inlaying of colored bricks, towering before us, to about the height of a

hundred and thirty feet. No place has proved itself more unwilling than

Coventry to admit such innovations. No place has made a more desperate

resistance to the introduction of steam power. No place has more

perseveringly struggled for protection, with groans, menaces, and

supplications. Up to a late period, the Coventry weavers believed

themselves safe from the inroads of steam power. A Macclesfield

manufacturer said, only twenty years ago, before a Committee of the

House of Commons, that he despaired of ever applying power-looms to

silk. This was because so much time was employed in handling and

trimming the silk, that the steam power must be largely wasted. So

thought the weavers, in the days when the silk was given out in hanks or

bobbins, and woven at home, or, when the work was done by handloom

weavers in the factory--called the loom-shop. The day was at hand,

however, when that should be done of which the Macclesfield gentleman

despaired. A small factory was set up in Coventry by way of experiment,

in the use of steam power, in 1831. It was burned down during a quarrel

about wages,--nobody knows how or by whom. The weavers declared it was

not their doing; but their enmity to steam power was strong enough to

restrain the employers from the use of it. It was not till every body

saw that Coventry was losing its manufacture,--parting with it to places

which made ribbons by steam,--that the manufacturers felt themselves

able to do what must be done, if they were to save their trade. The

state of things now is very significant. About seventy houses in

Coventry make ribbons and trimmings, (fringes and the like.) Of these,

four make fringes and trimmings, and no ribbons; and six or eight make

both. Say that fifty-eight houses make ribbons alone. It is believed

that three-fourths of the ribbons are made by no more than twenty houses

out of these fifty-eight. There are now thirty steam powerloom factories

in Coventry, producing about seven thousand pieces of ribbons in the

week, and employing about three thousand persons. It seems not to be

ascertained how large a proportion of the population are employed in the

ribbon manufacture: but the increase is great since the year 1838, when

the number was about eight thousand, without reckoning the outlying

places, which would add about three thousand to the number. The total

population of the city was found, last March, to amount to nearly

thirty-seven thousand. So, if we reckon the numbers employed in

connection with the throwing-mills and dye-houses, we shall see what an

ascendency the ribbon manufacture has in Coventry.

At the factory we are entering, the preparatory processes are going

forward at the top and the bottom of the building. In the yard is the

boiler fire, which sets the engine to work; and, from the same yard, we

enter workshops, where the machinery is made and repaired. The ponderous

work of the men at the forge and anvils contrasts curiously with the

delicacy of the fabric which is to be produced by the agency of these

masses of iron and steel. Passing up a step-ladder, we find ourselves in

a long room, where turners are at work, making the wooden apparatus

required, piercing the "compass boards," for the threads to pass

through, and displaying to us many ingenious forms of polished wood.

While the apparatus is thus preparing below, the material of the

manufacture is getting arranged, four stories overhead. There, under a

skylight, women and girls are winding the silk from the hanks, upon the

spools, for the shuttles. Here we see, again, the clouded silk, which is

to make plaid ribbons, and the bright hues which delighted our eyes at

the dyeing-house. This is easy work,--many of the women sitting at their

reels; and the air is pure and cool. The great shaft from the engine,

passing through the midst of the building, carries off the dust, and

affords excellent ventilation. Besides this, the whole edifice is

crowned by an observatory, with windows all round; and no complete

ceilings shut off the air between this chamber and the rooms of two

stories below. In clear weather, there is a fine view from this

pinnacle, extending from the house, gardens, and orchard of the Messrs.

Hamerton below, over the spires of Coventry, to a wide range of country

beyond.

Descending from the long room, where the winding is going on, we find

ourselves in an apartment which it does one good to be in. It is

furnished with long narrow tables, and benches put there for the sake of

the work-people, who may like to have their tea at the factory, in peace

and quiet. They can have hot water, and make themselves comfortable

here. Against the door hangs a list of books, read, or to be read, by

the people: and a very good list it is. Prints, from Raffaelle's Bible,

plainly framed, are on the walls. In the middle of the room, on, and

beside, a table, are four men and boys, preparing the "strapping" of a

Jacquard loom for work. The cords, so called, are woven at Shrewsbury.

We next enter a room where a young man is engaged in the magical work of

"reading in from the draught." The draught is the pattern of the

intended ribbon, drawn and painted upon diced paper,--like the patterns

for carpets that we saw at Kendal, but a good deal larger, though the

article to be produced here is so much smaller. The young man sits, as

at a loom. Before him hangs the mass of cords he is to tie into pattern,

close before his face, like the curtain of a cabinet piano. Upreared

before his eyes is his pattern, supported by a slip of wood. He brings

the line he has to "read in" to the edge of this wood, and then, with

nimble fingers, separates the cords, by threes, by sevens, by fives, by

twelves, according to the pattern, and threads through them the string

which is to tie them apart. The skill and speed with which he feels out

his cords, while his eyes are fixed on his pattern, appear very

remarkable; but when we come to consider, it is not so complicated a

process as playing at sight on the piano. The reader has to deal thus

with one chapter, or series, or movement, of his pattern. A _da capo_

ensues: in other words, the Jacquard cards are tied together, to begin

again; and there is a revolution of the cards, and a repetition of the

pattern, till the piece of ribbon is finished. In the same apartment is

the press in which the Jacquard cards are prepared; just in the way

which may be seen wherever silk or carpet weaving, with Jacquard looms,

goes forward.

All the preparations having been seen--the making of the machinery, the

filling of the spools, the drawing and "reading in" of the pattern, and

the tying of the cords or strapping, we have to see the great process of

all, the actual weaving. We certainly had no idea how fine a spectacle

it might be. Floor above floor is occupied with a long room in each,

where the looms are set as close as they can work, on either hand,

leaving only a narrow passage between. It may seem an odd thing to say;

but there is a kind of architectural grandeur in these long lofty rooms,

where the transverse cords of the looms and their shafts and beams are

so uniform, as to produce the impression that symmetry, on a large

scale, always gives. Looking down upon the details, there is plenty of

beauty. The light glances upon the glossy colored silks, depending, like

a veil, from the backs of the looms, where women and girls are busy

piercing the imperfect threads with nimble fingers. There seems to be

plenty for one person to do; for there are thirteen broad ribbons, or a

greater number of narrow ones, woven at once, in a single loom; yet it

may sometimes be seen that one person can attend the fronts, and another

the backs of two looms. In the front we see the thirteen ribbons getting

made. Usually, they are of the same pattern, in different colors. The

shuttles, with their gay little spools, fly to and fro, and the pattern

grows, as of its own will. Below is a barrel, on which the woven ribbon

is wound. Slowly revolving, it winds off the fabric as it is finished,

leaving the shuttles above room to ply their work.

The variety of ribbons is very great, though in this factory we saw no

gauzes, nor, at the time of our visit, any of the extremely rich ribbons

which made such a show at the Exhibition. Some had an elegant and

complicated pattern, and were woven with two shuttles (called the

double-batten weaving) which came forward alternately, as the details of

the rich flower or leaf required the one or the other. There were satin

ribbons, in weaving which only one thread in eight is taken up,--the

gloss being given by the silk loop which covers the other seven. On

entering, we saw some narrow scarlet satin ribbons, woven for the Queen.

Wondering what Her Majesty could want with ribbon of such a color and

quality, we were set at ease by finding that it was not for ladies, but

horses. It was to dress the heads of the royal horses. There were

bride-like, white-figured ribbons, and narrow flimsy black ones, fit for

the wear of the poor widow who strives to get together some mourning for

Sundays. There were checked ribbons, of all colors and all sizes in the

check. There were stripes of all varieties of width and hue. There were

diced ribbons, and speckled, and frosted. There were edges which may

introduce a beautiful harmony of coloring; as primrose with a lilac

edge, green with a purple edge, rose color and brown, puce and amber,

and so on. The loops of pearl or shell edges are given by the silk being

passed round horse-hairs, which are drawn out when the thing is done.

There are belts,--double ribbons,--which have other material than silk

in them; and there are a good many which are plain at one edge, and

ornamented at the other. These are for trimming dresses. One reason why

there are so few gauzes, is that the French beat us there. They grow the

kind of silk that is best for that fabric, and labor is cheap with them;

so that any work in which labor bears a large proportion to the

material, is peculiarly suitable for them.

We have spent so much time among the looms, that it is growing dusk in

their shadows, though still light enough in the counting house for us to

look over the pattern-book, and admire a great many patterns, most, till

we see more. Young women are weighing ribbons in large scales; and a man

is measuring off some pieces, by reeling. He cuts off remnants, which he

casts into a basket, where they look so pretty that, lest we should be

conscious of any shop-lifting propensities, we turn away. There is a

glare now through the window which separates us from the noisy weaving

room. The gas is lighted, and we step in again, just to see the effect.

It is really very fine. The flare of the separate jets is lost behind

the screens of silken threads, which veil the backs of the looms, while

the yellow light touches the beams, and gushes up to the high ceiling in

a thousand caprices. Surely the ribbon manufacture is one of the

prettiest that we have to show.

If the Coventry people were asked whether their chief manufacture was in

a flourishing state, the most opposite answers would probably be given

by different parties equally concerned. Some exult, and some complain,

at this present time. As far as we can make out, the state of things is

this. From the low price of provisions, multitudes have something more

to spare from their weekly wages than formerly, for the purchase of

finery: and the demand for cheap ribbons has increased wonderfully. As

always happens when any manufacture is prosperous, the operatives engage

their whole families in it. We may see the father weaving; his wife, on

the verge of her confinement, winding in another room, or, perhaps,

standing behind a loom, piecing the whole day long. The little girls

fill the spools; the boys are weaving somewhere else. The consequences

of this devotion of whole households to one business, are as bad here as

among the Nottingham lace-makers, or the Leicester hosiers. Not only is

there the misery before them of the whole family being adrift at once,

when bad times come, but they are doing their utmost to bring on those

bad times. Great as is the demand, the production has, thus far, much

exceeded it. The soundest capitalists may be heard complaining that

theirs is a losing trade. Less substantial capitalists have been obliged

to get rid of some of their stock at any price they could obtain: and

those ribbons, sold at a loss, intercept the sales of the fair-dealing

manufacturer. This cannot go on. Prosperous as the working-classes of

Coventry have been, for a considerable time, a season of adversity must

be within ken, if the capitalists find the trade a bad one for them. We

find the case strongly stated, and supported by facts, in a tract, on

the Census of Coventry, which has lately been published there. It might

save a repetition of the misery which the Coventry people brought upon

themselves formerly--by their tenacity about protective duties, and

their opposition to steam power--if they would, before it is too late,

ponder the facts of their case, and strive, every man in his way, to

yield respect to the natural demand for the great commodity of his city;

and to take care that the men of Coventry shall be fit for something

else than weaving ribbons.

From the Examiner.

BARTHOLD NIEBUHR, THE HISTORIAN.[20]

Niebuhr was born pre-eminently gifted, was trained by intellectual and

tender parents, and his whole career is one story of the progress made

by a mind which united extraordinary powers with untiring industry. But

Niebuhr was not only born to achieve greatness. He achieved love and

friendship in every relation of his life, he was a high-minded and in

the purest sense of the word an earnest man. In intellect he was a giant

among us; but in him the intellect was not a statue raised above the

moral life, on which it trod as on a pedestal, a block of mere

stone-mason's work; his heart had not been used up in the making of his

brains, or his soul cleared out a sacrifice to make room for a new stock

of understanding. We may yield our minds up to admire Niebuhr

unreservedly, and it is pleasant therefore to get a _Life_ of him in

English, so full as this is of the actual man, as he poured out portions

thereof to his bosom friends, and wherein the large lumps of true

Niebuhr gold are contained in a biographic deposit which itself is a

long way removed from dross. The quiet, unaffected way in which this

work has been done by the English writer of the book before us, her

elegant simplicity of style, her thorough mastery of the subject, enable

us to pass from Life to Letters, and from Letters back to Life, without

any sense but of a perfect harmony between both. The two volumes are of

a kind that can be read through from the beginning to the end with

unremitting pleasure. We strongly suspect that Niebuhr, at the age of

twelve, would have bewildered with his knowledge some few of our

university professors. Here is part of a sketch, representing him when

he was not very far removed from long clothes:

How keenly alive he was to poetical impressions appears from

a letter of Boje's written in 1783: "This reminds me of

little Niebuhr. His docility, his industry, and his devoted

love for me procure me many a pleasant hour. A short time

back I was reading 'Macbeth' aloud to his parents without

taking any notice of him, till I saw what an impression it

made upon him. Then I tried to render it all intelligible to

him, and even explained to him how the witches were only

poetical beings. When I was gone, he sat down (he is not yet

seven years old), and wrote it all out on seven sheets of

paper without omitting one important point, and certainly

without any expectation of receiving praise for it; for,

when his father asked to see what he had written, and showed

it to me, he cried for fear he had not done it well. Since

then he writes down every thing of importance that he hears

from his father or me. We seldom praise him, but just

quietly tell him where he has made any mistake, and he

avoids the fault for the future.

"The child's character early exhibited a rare union of the

faculty of poetical insight with that of accurate practical

observation. The amusements he contrived for himself afford

an illustration of this. During the periods of his

confinement to the house, before he was old enough to have

any paper given him, he covered with his writings and

drawings the margins of the leaves of several copies of

Forskaal's works, which were used in the house as waste

paper. Then he made copy books for himself, in which he

wrote essays, mostly on political subjects. He had an

imaginary empire called Low-England, of which he drew maps,

and he promulgated laws, waged wars, and made treaties of

peace there. His father was pleased that he should occupy

himself with amusements of this kind, and his sister took an

active part in them. There still exist among his papers many

of his childish productions; among others, translations and

interpretations of passages of the New Testament, poetical

paraphrases from the classics, sketches of little poems, a

translation of Poncet's Travels in Ethiopia, an historical

and geographical description of Africa, written in 1787 (the

two last were undertaken as presents to his father on his

birth-day), and many other things mostly written during

these years."

Here is Niebuhr, at the age of thirty-four, Professor in Berlin, after

he had retired from official trusts which had imposed as many toils upon

him as would have made an enormously active life for one of the most

ancient tenants of our English pension list to look back upon:

"Niebuhr's relinquishment of office, in 1810, forms an

important epoch in his life. He was now thirty-four years of

age, and since his twentieth year (with the exception of the

sixteen months passed in England and Scotland), had been

actively engaged in the public service. During this period

he had indeed never lost sight of his philological

researches, but he had only been able to devote to them his

few hours of leisure; now, it was to be seen whether he

could find satisfaction in the life of a student, after

years passed in the midst of the great world, and surrounded

by exciting circumstances. How far he had, however, turned

these leisure hours to account, may be judged by the

following memorandum, found, with many others of a similar

kind, among his papers, and written most probably in

Copenhagen about 1803:

"Works which I have to complete: 1. Treatise on Roman

Domains. 2. Translation of El Wakidi 3. History of Macedon.

4. Account of the Roman Constitution at its various Epochs.

5. History of the Achaean Confederation, of the Wars of the

Confederates, and of the Civil Wars of Marius and Sylla, 6.

Constitutions of the Greek States. 7. Empire of the

Caliphs."

"No detailed outlines of these, or any of his other literary

undertakings are to be found; but it must not be inferred that such

memoranda contain mere projects, towards whose execution no steps were

ever taken. That Niebuhr proposed any such work to himself, was a

certain sign that he had read and thought deeply on the subject, but he

was able to trust so implicitly to his extraordinary memory, that he

never committed any portion of his essays to paper, till the whole was

complete in his own mind. His memory was so wonderfully retentive, that

he scarcely ever forgot any thing which he had once heard or read, and

the facts he knew remained present to him at all times, even in their

minutest details.

"His wife and his sister once playfully took up Gibbon, and asked him

questions from the table of contents about the most trivial things, by

way of testing his memory. They carried on the examination till they

were tired, and gave up all hope of even detecting him in a momentary

uncertainty, though he was at the same time engaged in writing on some

other subject. He was once conversing with a party of Austrian officers

about Napoleon's Italian campaigns. Some dispute arose respecting the

position of different corps in the battle of Marengo. Niebuhr described

exactly how they were placed, and the progress of the action. The

officers contradicted him; but on maps being brought he was found to be

in the right, and to know more of the details of the conflict than the

very officers who had been present. One day, when he was talking with

Professor Welcker of Bonn, the conversation happened to turn on the

weather, and Niebuhr quoted the results of barometrical observations in

the different years, as far back as 1770, with perfect accuracy. This

power was not a merely mechanical faculty; it was intimately connected

with the power of instantaneously seizing on all the relations of any

fact placed before him, and with his wonderful imagination; his

imagination, however, was that of an historian, not of a poet--it was

not creative, but enabled him to form from the most various, and

apparently inadequate sources, distinct and truthful pictures of scenes,

actions, and characters. Hence his keen delight in travels: hence, too,

his habit of pronouncing judgment on the men of other countries and of

past times, with all the warmth of a fellow-countryman and a

contemporary.

"With his warm affections, and clear-sighted moral sense, it was

impossible for him to form such opinions on past or present history,

coolly standing aloof, as it were, and regarding the subject with calm

superiority; he could not but condemn and despise all that was

pernicious and base; he could not but love and reverence, with his whole

heart, whatever was noble and beautiful. Such opinions and feelings he

expressed with the utmost frankness, sometimes even with vehemence, when

prudence would have counselled more guarded language."

Here is Professor Niebuhr holding up a bright example to our friends who

fear to look ridiculous in rifle clubs:

"On the evacuation of Berlin by the French in February,

1813, Niebuhr shared in the national rejoicings, and not

less in the enthusiasm displayed in the preparations for the

complete re-conquest of freedom. When the Landwehr was

called out, he refused to evade serving in it, as he could

take no other part in the war. His wish was to act as

secretary to the general staff; but if this were not

possible, he meant to enter the service as a volunteer with

some of his friends. For this purpose he went through the

exercises, and when the time came for those of his age to be

summoned, sent in his name as a volunteer to the Landwehr.

He would have preferred entering a regular regiment, and

applied to the King for permission to do so; but this

request was refused by him, and he added that he would give

him other commissions more suited to his talents.

"Niebuhr's friends in Holstein could hardly trust their eyes

when he wrote them word that he was drilling for the army,

and that his wife entered with equal enthusiasm into his

feelings. The greatness of the object had so inspired Madame

Niebuhr, who was usually anxious, even to a morbid extent,

at the slightest imaginable peril for the husband in whom

she might truly be said to live, that she was willing and

ready to bring even her most precious treasure as a

sacrifice to her country."

Hitherto we have quoted the biography, but on this point, and at a time

when we are seeking to forearm ourselves against the chance of evil, it

may edify us to hear Niebuhr himself speak on the theme of ball

practice. Niebuhr, it should be remembered, writes at a time when two

volumes of his great work, the "History of Rome," had been appreciated

by the public:

"I come from an employment in which you will hardly be able

to fancy me engaged--namely, exercising. Even before the

departure of the French, I began to go through the exercise

in private, but a man can scarcely acquire it without

companions. Since the French left, a party of about twenty

of us have been exercising in a garden, and we have already

got over the most difficult part of the training. When my

lectures are concluded, which they will be at the beginning

of next week, I shall try to exercise with regular recruits

during the morning, and as often as possible practice

shooting at a mark..... By the end of a month I hope to be

as well drilled as any recruit who is considered to have

finished his training. The heavy musket gave me so much

trouble at first, that I almost despaired of being able to

handle it; but we are able to recover the powers again that

we have only lost for want of practice. I am happy to say

that my hands are growing horny; for as long as they had a

delicate bookworm's skin, the musket cut into them

terribly."

And now let us give a view of Niebuhr as Professor in Bonn, together

with a few well-written notes upon his character:

"We have seen that, at Berlin, Niebuhr delivered his

lectures _verbatim_ from written notes. At Bonn, on the

contrary, his only preparation consisted in meditating for a

short time on the subject of his lecture, and referring to

authorities for his data, when he found it necessary, and he

brought no written notes with him to the lecture-room. His

success in imparting his ideas varied greatly at different

times, as it depended almost entirely on his mental and

physical condition at the moment. He always felt a certain

difficulty in expressing himself. He grasped his subject as

a whole, and it was not easy to him to retrace the steps by

which he had arrived at his results. Hence his style was

harsh and often disjointed; and yet he possessed a species

of eloquence whose value is of a high order--that of making

the expression the exact reflection of the thought--that of

embodying each separate idea in an adequate, but not

redundant form. The discourse was no dry, impersonal

statement of facts and arguments, or even opinions; the

whole man, with his conceptions, feelings, moral sentiments,

nay passions too, was mirrored forth in it. Hence Niebuhr

not merely informed and stimulated the minds of his hearers,

but attracted their affections. That he did this in an

eminent degree, was not indeed owing to his lectures alone,

but also to his kind and generous conduct. All who deserved

it were sure of his sympathy and assistance, whether

oppressed by intellectual difficulties, or pecuniary cares.

During the first year, he delivered his lectures without

remuneration; afterwards, on its being represented to him

that this would be injurious to other professors who could

not afford to do the same, he consented to take fees, but

employed them in assisting poor scholars and founding

prizes. He often, however, still remitted the fee privately,

when he perceived that a young man could not well afford it,

and never took any from friends.

"But those who were admitted to his domestic circle were the

class most deeply indebted to him. His interest in all

subjects of scientific or moral importance was always

lively; and it was impossible to be in his company without

deriving some accession of knowledge and incentive to good.

From his associates he only required a warm and pure heart

and a sincere love of knowledge, with a freedom from

affectation or arrogance. Where he found these, he willingly

adapted himself to the wants and capacities of his

companions; would receive objections mildly, and take pains

to answer them, even when urged by mere youths, and weigh

carefully every new idea presented to him. He was fond of

society, and while his irritability not seldom gave rise to

slight misunderstandings and even temporary estrangements in

the circle of his acquaintance, there were some friends with

whom he always remained on terms of unbroken intimacy, among

whom may be named Professors Brandis, Arndt, Nitzsch, Bleek,

Naeke, Welcker, and Hollweg. He enjoyed wit in others, and in

his lighter moods racy and pointed sayings escaped him not

unfrequently.

"His intercourse was not confined to literary circles. In

all the civil affairs of the town and neighborhood he took

an active interest from principle as well as inclination,

for he considered a man as no good citizen who refused to

take his share of the public business of the neighborhood in

which he lived; and the loss which left so great a blank in

the world of letters, was also deeply regretted by his

fellow-townsmen of Bonn. Niebuhr's mode of life at Bonn was

very regular, and his habits simple. He hated show and

unnecessary luxury in domestic life. He loved art in her

proper place, but could not bear to see her degraded into

the mere minister of outward ease. His life in his own

family showed the erroneousness of the assertion that a

thorough devotion to learning is inconsistent with the

claims of family affection. He liked to hear of all the

little household occurrences, and his sympathy was as ready

for the little sorrows of his children as for the

misfortunes of a nation. He was in the habit of rising at

seven in the morning, and retiring at eleven. At the simple

one o'clock dinner, he generally conversed cheerfully upon

the contents of the newspapers which he had just looked

through. The conversation was usually continued during the

walk which he took immediately afterwards. The building of a

house, or the planting of a garden, had always an attraction

for him, and he used to watch the measuring of a wall, or

the breaking open of an entrance, with the same species of

interest with which he observed the development of a

political organization. The family drank tea at eight

o'clock, when any of his acquaintance were always welcome.

But during the hours spent in his library, his whole being

was absorbed in his studies, and hence he got through an

immense amount of work in an incredibly short time."

Finally, here is the death of the immortal historian:

"The last political occurrence in which Niebuhr was strongly

interested, was the trial of the ministers of Charles the

Tenth; it was indirectly the cause of his death. He read the

reports in the French journals with eager attention; and as

these newspapers were much in request at that time, from the

universal interest felt in their contents, he did not in

general go to the public reading-rooms where he was

accustomed to see the papers daily, until the evening. On

Christmas Eve and the following day, he was in better health

and spirits than he had been for a long while, but on the

evening of the 25th of December he spent a considerable time

waiting and reading in the hot news-room, without taking off

his thick fur cloak, and then returned home through the

bitter frosty night air, heated in mind and body. Still full

of the impression made on him by the papers, he went

straight to Classen's room, and exclaimed, 'That is true

eloquence! You must read Sauzet's speech; he alone declares

the true state of the case; that this is no question of law,

but an open battle between hostile powers! Sauzet must be no

common man! But,' he added immediately, 'I have taken a

severe chill, I must go to bed.' And from the couch which he

then sought, he never rose again, except for one hour, two

days afterwards, when he was forced to return to it quickly

with warning symptoms of his approaching end.

"His illness lasted a week, and was pronounced, on the

fourth day, to be a decided attack of inflammation on the

lungs. His hopes sank at first, but rose with his increasing

danger and weakness; even on the morning of the last day he

said, 'I may still recover.' Two days before, his faithful

wife, who had exerted herself beyond her strength in nursing

him, fell ill and was obliged to leave him. He then turned

his face to the wall, and exclaimed with the most painful

presentiment, 'Hapless house! To lose father and mother at

once!' And to the children he said, 'Pray to God, children!

He alone can help us!' And his attendants saw that he

himself was seeking comfort and strength in silent prayer.

But when his hopes of life revived, his active and powerful

mind soon demanded its wonted occupation. The studies that

had been dearest to him through life, remained so in death;

his love to them was proved to be pure and genuine by its

unwavering perseverance to the last. While he was on his

sick bed, Classsen read aloud to him for hours the Greek

text of the Jewish History of Josephus, and he followed the

sense with such ease and attention, that he suggested

several emendations in the text at the moment; this may be

called an unimportant circumstance, but it always appeared

to us one of the most wonderful proofs of his mental powers.

The last learned work in which he was able to testify his

interest, was the description of Rome by Bunsen and his

friends, which had just been sent to him; the preface to the

first volume was read aloud to him, and called forth

expressions of pleasure and approbation. He also asked for

light reading to pass the time, but our attempts to satisfy

him were unsuccessful. A friend proposed the 'Briefe eines

Verstorbenen,' which was then making a great sensation; but

he declined it, faying he feared that its levity would jar

upon his feelings. One of Cooper's novels was recommended to

him, and excited his ridicule by its extraordinary verbiage;

he was much amused by trying an experiment he proposed,

which consisted in taking one period at hap-hazard on each

page; and by the discovery that this mode of reading did

little violence to the connection of the story. The

'Colnishe Zeitung' was read aloud to him up to the last day,

with extracts from the French and other journals. He asked

for them expressly, only twelve hours before his death, and

gave his opinion half in jest about the change of ministry

in Paris. But on the afternoon of the 1st of January, 1831,

he sank into a dreamy slumber; once on awakening, he said

that pleasant images floated before him in sleep; now and

then he spoke French in his dreams; probably he felt himself

in the presence of his departed friend De Serre. As the

night gathered, consciousness gradually faded away; he woke

up once more about midnight, when the last remedy was

administered; he recognized in it a medicine of doubtful

operation, never resorted to but in extreme cases, and said

in a faint voice, 'What essential substance is this? Am I so

far gone?' These were his last words; he sank back on his

pillow, and within an hour his noble heart had ceased to

beat."

"Niebuhr's wife died nine days after him, on the 11th of the

same month, about the same hour of the night. She died, in

fact, of a broken heart, though her disease was, like his,

an inflammation of the chest. She could shed no tears,

though she longed for them, and prayed God to send them;

once her eyes grew moist, when his picture was brought to

her at her own request, but they dried again, and her heavy

heart was not relieved. She had her children often with her,

particularly her son, and gave them her parting counsels.

And so her loving and pure soul went home to God. Both rest

in one grave, over which the present King of Prussia has

erected a monument to the memory of his former instructor

and counsellor. The children were placed under the care of

Madame Hensler, at Kiel."

Our copious extracts from the biographic portion of the work will amply

satisfy the mind of any one who needs more than report to convince him

of the tact and good taste which have presided over the transformation

of Madame Hensler's _Lebensnachrichten_ into a readable and interesting

book, which is likely to be read for years as the best English record of

a life that will be looked back upon with interest by all posterity.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] The Life and Letters of Barthold George Niebuhr; with Essays on his

Character and Influence, by the Chevalier Bunsen and Professors Brandis

and Loebell. Two volumes. Chapman & Hall.

From Household Words.

PICTURE ADVERTISING IN SOUTH AMERICA.

The concentrated wisdom of nations used formerly to be sought for in

their proverbs; we look for it now-a-days in their newspapers. Whether

we always find what we seek, in this respect, may be a question; but

something is sure to turn up in them that will repay the search, though

the leading article, the records of parliament and of law, or even the

letters of "our own correspondent," may fail to disclose it. The

"intelligent" reader will at once see that we point to the advertising

columns, but we are not going to inflict an epitome of the first and

second pages of the _Times_, or present an abstract of its Supplement,

characteristic of our country as the result might prove. We purpose to

go somewhat further afield, and tread upon ground hitherto unbroken. A

file of South American newspapers has suggested to us that it might

prove amusing, if not instructive, to describe the wants and wishes, the

habits of life, and something of the pervading tone of society, in

certain parts of that hemisphere, as shown in the advertisements of the

periodical journals. We have selected the city of Buenos Ayres for this

illustration, and turn at once to our file.

The political feature is absent here, for where men have always arms in

their hands to establish a new "Constitution," or destroy an old one,

they look elsewhere than to a newspaper advertisement for the arena

wherein to exhibit their valor or patriotism. Their "London Tavern,"

their "Town Hall," their "Copenhagen Fields," or "Bull-ring," are to be

found on their wide-spreading Pampas, or in the fastnesses of their

Sierras, with the _lasso_ at the saddle-bow, the sharp spur on the heel,

the _trabrigo_ (carbine) in the holster, and the lance or sabre in the

grasp. These politicians have no time for reading or writing

advertisements, nor would it answer any very useful purpose if they did.

The only attempt that is ever made to catch the patriotic eye, is where

a formal notice is issued by the authorities, touching taxes, or a

muster of militia for some peaceful end; on these occasions, a "_Viva la

Federation!_" (Long live the Confederation!) appears at the head of the

advertisement announcing the fact; and when it has a quasi-military

character attached to it, the portrait of an infantry soldier under

arms, in white tights, Hessian boots, crossbelts, stiff stock, and

ponderous chako (none of them very pleasant things to think of in

latitude thirty-four degrees south, with the thermometer ninety-six in

the shade), is invariably added. But the confederation is not appealed

to merely because the nature of the advertisement may seem to require

it; we find the same heart-stirring refresher associated with ass's

milk, live turtle, runaway slaves--with everything, indeed, that has an

interest for the community, portable or edible, necessary to its

comfort, or serviceable to its desires.

But if liberty has very little claim on the advertising columns of a

newspaper in Buenos Ayres, there is a large set-off in favor of slavery.

The papers teem with notices concerning that portion of the people who

have the misfortune not to belong to themselves. And here it may be

desirable to advert to a feature which is essential to the success of an

advertisement in South America; it must be pictorial. Our own country

newspapers, and most of the continental ones,--those of our Parisian

friends in particular,--show us what can be done in this way; but they

do not elaborate their subject after the manner of the Buenos-Ayreans.

With them the advertisement must have a double chance; they who can read

may enjoy the advantages of a liberal education in plain type;--they who

have not been introduced to the schoolmaster may gather the meaning of

the "noticia" from the greater or less striking resemblance of the

object advertised to the woodcut which illustrates it. It is true, a

difficulty may sometimes arise in the latter case, owing to an

economical employment of the same block to represent a great variety of

actions; the same slave is always in the attitude of a fugitive, whether

he be described as running away with all his might, or quietly standing

still to be sold; the same horse is always in a high trotting condition,

whether he be supposed to career across the plain, or hold up a foot to

be shod; the same bull has always his head bent down, with the same

mischievous poke of the horns, whether he be advertised for slaughter or

recommended for sport.

A cook who might make a pudding with quick-lime instead of flour, and

instead of a bath-brick send in a real one, would not accord with the

notions of an English housewife. Female slaves who are to be sold, are

represented as like to Atalanta, as the males are to Hippomenes. They,

too, attired in a long night-gown, which has very much the look of

impeding their flight, are always bolting with a bundle, which probably

contains the bonnet they never appear in, or the shoes they are not

supposed to wear. In like manner, if you wish to buy (_se desca

comprar_) a slave, of either sex, you do so with your eyes open; for the

great probability that the new purchase will vanish on the first

favorable opportunity, is vividly get forth in the woodcut that speaks

for all. The prices are tolerably high,--a boy, as we have seen, fetches

nine hundred dollars; a woman-servant (_una criada_), fifteen hundred;

and a man in the prime of his age,--for manual labor,--eighteen hundred,

or two thousand. What a fortune Louis Napoleon might make, if he could

establish a market-value for those whom he proscribes! M. Thiers would

then be worth four hundred pounds!

The next step is to religion,--or, at least, to its forms and

ceremonies. We see the vignette of an altar-table, covered with a fair

cloth, whereon stand a crucifix, and a pair of long waxen tapers, in

full blaze, a holy-water pot, and a sprinkling-brush, are placed beside

the table, beneath which is spread a handsome carpet. So much for the

emblem; now for the text:

"Dona Agustina Lopez de Rosas, the citizens Don Prudencio

and Don Gervacio Ortiz de Rosas, and others, brothers, wife,

and sons of the deceased Don Leon Ortiz de Rosas (Q.E.P.D.),

invite those gentlemen who, by accident, have not received

notes of invitation, to accompany them to pray to God for

mercy on the soul of the aforesaid deceased, in the

Cathedral Church, at ten o'clock of the 20th of March

current, by which they will feel under infinite obligation."

The next is a more than half-obliterated impression of an image of the

sun, partly obscured by clouds, with the obligato crucifix in the midst,

headed "Ave Maria;"--it is the third advertisement (_tercer aviso_), and

is addressed by the Superiors (Mayordomos) of the most Holy Rosary to

all faithful and devout sons of the most holy Mary.

The text of this address we need not give; the substance will be

sufficient. It tells the history of the completion of the two naves and

other parts of the church of the Patriarch San Domingo, which have been

painted, whitewashed, and otherwise decorated, in the sight of all the

faithful (_a la vista de todos los fieles_), and--to make a long story

short--money is wanted to make it what the priests wish it, and'

therefore the superiors intend to stand daily in the chief porch to

receive subscriptions, the smallest sums being--as in England, and every

where else--most gratefully received.

The mortuary advertisements are not absolutely a transition "from

praying to purse-taking;" only a variety of the same general mode of

dealing. We select two of these:--In the first, we behold a lady in the

full-dress evening costume of the Empire, with a very short waist, and

very little drapery above it, leaning pensively against a funereal

monument; an embroidered pocket-handkerchief being placed beneath one

elbow, to protect it from the cold marble; in her left hand she carries

a substantial wooden cross, which is held so as to fall over the

shoulder; a weeping willow on the opposite side to the mourning lady

balances the composition. Below the picture is the announcement that

"Funereal letters (_Esquelas de Funerales_) of every tasteful

description, engraved as well as lithographic, and at a very moderate

price, are to be obtained at the printing-office of the Mercantile

Gazette, in the street of Cangallo, No. 75, where designs of all kinds

maybe seen." The second is more sombre in outward show, but less

applicable to the general business of the advertiser. It is headed,

"Interesting to all whom it may concern." (_Interesante a quienes

conguenga._) We have here a very black tree, a very black tombstone, and

a very black sky; the outline of the two former relieved by gleams of

light from a very full moon; and having gazed our fill on these

melancholy objects, are told that--"In the street of Victory, at No.

63-1/2, at all hours of the day, an individual is to be met with who

undertakes to supply every description of cards or notes of invitation,

whether for funerals or any other kind of entertainment; he undertakes

at the same time to serve those gentlemen who may honor him with their

orders, with the very best goods, &c.," after the approved fashion of

advertisers all over the globe.

Natural history affords the Buenos-Ayreans great scope for their

artistical genius. Don Federico Costa announces a grand spectacle of

wild beasts; and that there may be no mistake about what he has to show,

he heralds his collections with the full-length portrait of an Uran-utan

(_Orangutan_), which he describes as a native of Africa. This

interesting animal is seated on a bank, with a large stick in one hand,

looking over his shoulder, and displays an endless amount of fingers and

toes; the greater the number, the nearer, in Don Federico's opinion, the

creature's approach to humanity. There is a wonderful bit of shadow

thrown from one of the Uran-utan's legs, which puts one in mind of the

footprint that so startled Robinson Crusoe; and, indeed, the general

appearance of the animal is not unlike some of the earlier portraits of

that renowned mariner, only nature has done for the Uran-utan what art

and goat-skins accomplished for the solitary of Juan Fernandez.

The moral attributes of Don Federico's pet are strongly insisted upon in

the advertisement,--his excellent disposition, the ingenuity of his

mind, and (included in "_la moral_") the surprising dexterity with which

he scoops out the contents of a cocoa-nut "in a manner most pleasing

(_muy agradable_) to the beholders." His companions in captivity are

porcupines, tiger-cats, ounces, armadillos, and a number of animals

bearing local names, besides divers snakes of different colors, two

thousand well-preserved insects, and, finally, (_por ultimo_,) a

collection of antiquities from Mexico. The price of admission is two

_reales_--the universal shilling; and children, in Buenos Ayres, as in

London, are admitted for half-price.

A livelier turtle than that which is figured for the edification of the

gourmands who frequent the Hotel of Liberty in the street of the 25th of

May, it would be difficult to find even in the celebrated cellars of

Leadenhall-street. If we were wholly unacquainted with the domestic

habits of these scaly delicacies, we might easily imagine, from the

picture here given, that the way a turtle gets over the ground is by

flying, his outstretched feet and flippers serving him for wings. This

advertisement is brief,--on the principle that good wine needs no bush.

We are merely informed that turtle-soup, cutlets, and broiled fins, are

to be had from mid-day till sunset. There is no occasion for the hotel

proprietor to waste his money in commending wares such as these. The

picture and the hour of consummation would have been enough.

It is well that invalids should be told, that at No. 76, in the Street

of Maipu, the milk of an ass "recently confined" is always on sale; but

the woodcut attached to the advertisement makes the fact appear

doubtful; for a sturdier male animal than the "burro" there depicted,

was never painted by Morland or Gainsborough. This, however, may arise

from the necessity which exists for one of a sort doing duty for all.

But there is another singularity in this advertisement. With no line to

indicate a fresh subject, as is the case in every other instance, the

portrait of the ass is always followed by the words "Long live the

Confederation! Death to the Unitarians!" These lines have puzzled us;

and we hesitate to give the only explanation that strikes us: something

disrespectful, in short, to the Confederation of Buenos Ayres.

It is not only the slaves that run away in that part of South America:

the infection extends to dogs, horses, and oxen, all of which, like

Caliban, seem for ever on the look out to "have a new master, get a new

man," to hunt, ride, or drive them. There is a daily column, headed

"Perdida," in which long-tailed horses, with flowing manes, pointers in

immovable attitudes, for ever pointing, and sinister-looking

bulls--thorough-paced gamblers, always ready for pitch-and-toss--are

advertised as having left their owners, who strive to win them back by

rewards varying twenty to fifty dollars. In all these cases the missing

animals are described as having "disappeared" (_desaparecido_)--a mild

term for "stolen;" it being the Spanish custom to refrain from "wounding

ears polite"--except when the blood is up; then, indeed, they may take

the field against Uncle Toby's army, that swore so terribly in Flanders.

This delicate mode of appealing to the consciences of thieves--which,

carried fairly out, would probably bear a strong resemblance in the end

to the politeness of Mr. Chucks--is extended to property of all kinds. A

large watch, of the genus turnip, the hands pointing to half-past

eleven, the time, perhaps, when the robbery is supposed to have taken

place, and accompanied by the expressive word "Ojo" (look sharp) thrice

repeated, indicates, what the advertisement soon plainly tells, that

from No. 69, in Emerald-street, there have "disappeared" a valuable lot

of articles, which give a very good idea of the turn-out of a

well-mounted horseman in South America. There are, first, several pairs

of large silver spurs--and a pair of Spanish spurs, when melted down,

would make a decent service of plate,--quite enough for a "testimonial"

to ourselves; and then come braided headstalls and bridles, with twisted

chains and cavessons of silver; the reins hung with silver-bells, and

decorated with silver bosses, and the bits and curbs heavily mounted

with the same costly metal. This robbery has been evidently "a put-up

thing," for there is no word of housebreaking,--merely a disappearance;

and all silversmiths, pawnbrokers, and the public in general, are

entreated (_se suplica a los, &c._) to detain the article, if offered,

and a reward of two hundred dollars will be given. Perhaps the gentlemen

who caused the horses to disappear have taken this mode of procuring

caparisons!

Quack-medicine vendors are not wanting in Buenos Ayres to render

important services to humanity. Two magnificent cut-glass decanters,

gigantic in proportion to a tree of wondrous virtues which stands

between them, are stated to be full of a healing medicine, which will do

the business of all whom the faculty have given up or are otherwise

incurable, as effectually as Parr's Life Pills or Holloway's Ointment.

The chief establishment for the sale of this elixir is very carefully

pointed out; and for the benefit of future travellers we may mention,

that it is to be found at No. 496 in the street of Cangallo, and in the

very last door on the left-hand side, behind the windmill; and that in

the court-yard of the house there is a garden filled with statues, of

which the originals are probably defunct; but whether the elixir out of

the two large decanters had any thing to do with this apotheosis, we

refrain from conjecturing.

The preceding advertisements are the most noticeable for embellishment

and style. The ordinary kind of wants are set forth with woodcuts and

text of a less striking kind, but almost all are illustrated. Wine has a

barrel for its sign; music, a violin; travelling, a carriage; gardening,

a flower-pot; upholstery, a chair; the cobbler's mystery, a top-boot;

the hatter's, a beaver; and the letter of lodgings, a house full of

windows. Not all of them are confined to the Spanish language, for there

are many English merchants and traders; and to accommodate the last, a

notice like the following recommends the aforementioned Street of Piety:

"To Det. To roms in altos one Squaz from the Place of

Victory."

The author of this announcement certainly had not achieved a victory

over the English language.

From the London Examiner.

GUIZOT AND MONTALEMBERT.

The greatest novelty now in Paris is a speech. Any specimen of oratory

that the police will first allow to be spoken, and then to be printed,

is quite an attraction. Indeed there is but one remaining chance of

perpetrating a speech, and that is by achieving your election as a

member of the Institute, or being appointed as an old member to welcome

the newly-elected academician. These are the only legitimate

opportunities for making one's voice heard in public that M. Bonaparte's

code has left to the Frenchman.

In pursuance of this solitary permission on the part of the authorities,

the Paris journals have contained reports of two remarkable speeches,

the one uttered by Count Montalembert on his being elected to the seat

in the Academy, rendered vacant by the death of M. Droz; the other

spoken by M. Guizot, in the form of an address of welcome to the new

academician, M. de Montalembert. Now in the speeches of these, the first

authorized orators of the new despotic _regime_, we find so little to

awaken the susceptibilities of even M. Bonaparte's police, that we have

heard with unaffected wonder of the scissors of the censorship having

been applied even to them. The philosophy of the speeches is terribly

Conservative. M. Bonaparte himself could have desired no other. If his

highness the President had embraced the two academicians after their

speeches, and decorated them with the Grand Cordon of his new Order, it

would have been but a tribute justly due to these lay preachers of

absolutism.

Eulogy of Droz was the theme which afforded Count Montalembert the

opportunity to ventilate his opinions, as M. Guizot's theme was the

eulogy of Montalembert. Montalembert depicted how Droz, who had reached

youth at the commencement of the great revolution, joined in all its

theories, its hopes, and its excesses, anathematizing kings and priests,

and believing in the happy and final reign of pure democracy; and how

all this the same Droz lived to unlearn and to correct, and to settle

down as quiet and as arrant a Conservative as ever supported monarchic

government and a restored church. This is the true path of repentance,

exclaimed Montalembert, and the only road to wisdom.

The compliment to tergiversation, which M. Montalembert thus paid to

Droz, M. Guizot applied to Montalembert himself, whom he (M. Guizot) had

remembered commencing his political career in full opposition,

thundering against corrupt majorities, against kingly influence, and

even against that want of spirit which preferred being at peace with

neighbors to provoking them. But all that sort of constitutional

opposition leads, as the people have seen, to the triumph of socialism;

and so all wise people, like M. Montalembert, naturally become sick of

it, and abandon it, betaking themselves for a preference to the old

political religion of legitimacy and worship of absolutism. Of all the

national disgraces inflicted upon France by M. Bonaparte's triumph, we

know of none greater than such a hymn to servility, such anathemas and

farewells to constitutional freedom, uttered by these two Talleyrands of

the professorial and ecclesiastical schools, who have been changing

principles all their lives, and now proclaim at last that absolutism is

the only anchor to hold by.

On one point M. Montalembert impugned the philosophy of M. Droz, and in

doing so impugned not less the opinion of M. Thiers, and most of the

eminent men who have written histories or judgments upon the great

events of the Revolution. Droz, relating these events in after life, saw

in their march and series the influence of stern necessity. Such was the

congregated mass of evils of all kinds produced by the long

misgovernment of the despotism and corrupt regime of the Bourbons, that

a catastrophe like that of the Great Revolution was, according to Droz,

not to be avoided. No human power could stop it, no moderation, no

wisdom. In its path men were like the mere vegetable growth of a valley

down which a torrent comes in inundation, sweeping all before it.

But M. Montalembert, for his own part, has another way of viewing the

events of the Revolution. He denies the doctrine of fatalism or of

necessity. He will not allow that the follies of the monarchy drew down

after them the crimes of the Republic as a natural consequence. He sees

in all those events, on the contrary, a direct intervention of